The Most Precious Thing

by Bradshaw, Rita

  He swallowed, as if ridding himself of a piece of sharp stone, and said, ‘I know, I know,’ and in case she read what was in his eyes he turned and walked over to the bed where Ada had left the tray. There was a small plate of gingerbread beside the teapot, and again the lump in his throat threatened to choke him. In spite of everything he was a darn sight better off than his da; by, he was that, he told himself grimly. Alec and his mam had made it clear every bite his da ate was on sufferance, according to Lillian, and but for his sister insisting their da met her in her break at midday when she always made sure he had a good feed from the faggot and pease pudding stall or the meat pie stall in the old market, he’d have wasted away by now. Lillian said it had got so he wouldn’t take so much as a mouthful at home.

  Not that his da had said a word about it, in spite of them being on the same shift for picket duty and such. But he could understand that, David thought. He’d be the same if it was him. It was one thing to suffer such humiliation, quite another to bring it out into the open. He knew Lillian was worried about their da; every time she came round to see him and Carrie it was the first thing she talked about, and he had noticed a change in him the last weeks or so. His da didn’t carry himself straight any more or whistle like he used to. It was almost as if something had gone, been extinguished inside, so that he was shrinking down inside himself. Damn this strike, they’d all be up the pole by the end of it.

  He poured two mugs of black tea and took one across to Carrie, along with the gingerbread. ‘Get this down you, lass,’ he said roughly, his eyes resting on the batch of fireworks she had already made which were lying in a Riley’s Toffee-Roll tin.

  Carrie took the tea but shook her head at the gingerbread. ‘I’ve had some, that’s for you.’

  Her wrists were so thin they looked as if you could snap them with the slightest pressure, and although her stomach was ballooning and her feet were puffy, the rest of her was as thin as a rake. He didn’t believe she’d eaten anything since the crust of bread and small smidgen of cheese she’d had before he had gone out that morning. ‘Eat it.’ He put the plate in front of her. ‘You’ve had your way about the fireworks, let me have mine in this,’ he said with a smile to soften his words.

  ‘Half each then?’

  He moved his head impatiently. ‘I don’t want nowt. Eat it up and then I’ll take the tray back to Ada in a minute or two.’

  The saliva filled his mouth as Carrie reluctantly bit into Ada’s homemade gingerbread. He had thought he knew what it was to be hungry in the past, but the strike had shown him different. He had only to think of inch-thick bread held in front of a glowing fire on the toasting fork for his stomach to grumble, toast with melting golden butter fresh from the farm or salty pork dripping from the butcher’s.

  Funny, but of all the food he’d had to do without in the last weeks, it was the smell and taste of toast he missed the most. Or maybe it wasn’t so strange. Toast was part and parcel of the happy times in his childhood, the occasions when he’d spent days or weeks at his Gran and Granda Sutton’s when his mother had got fed up with four bairns under her feet and had shipped himself and Lillian off to South Shields for a while.

  He had loved it there, running wild for the most part in a way he was never allowed to do at home but always knowing Gran Sutton’s small two-roomed cottage was there to go back to at the end of the day. A kettle always on the hob, hot bath water in front of a rich red, yellow and orange fire, a glowing oven shelf wrapped in old sacking to warm the pallet bed in front of the range in which he and Lillian slept, and the smell of nutty slack and leftover tea leaves dampening down the fire as they’d drifted off to sleep listening to his gran and granda talk.

  When he was still knee high to a grasshopper he would go and sit with the retired miners on the bench outside the village hall. They would send him home when the sun was setting and it was time for dinner, chivying him off with a tiny clay pipe and a hap’orth of chocolate tobacco, like as not. There had been big fat mushrooms in the fields close to the village, along with blackberries and sloes in the autumn, and he could still recall the beauty of the glistening frost on the spiders’ webs draping the hedgerows in the winter.

  He had never wanted to go home, never. And when his da had come to collect them, he’d known the indefinable something that existed between his parents made his da feel the same. His gran would send them off loaded down with homemade toffee, as brittle as it was transparent, and she always hugged his da longer than she ever did anyone else.

  And then there was home and his mam waiting for them with a tight mouth and hard hands, her fingers bruising him as she stripped off his clothes, bewailing the state of them until she and his da had the inevitable row. And real life would begin again.

  ‘Here.’ He came out of his thoughts to find Carrie had risen to stand in front of him, holding a piece of gingerbread to his lips as she said again, ‘Here, eat it. Please.’

  He stared at her, and when she blinked at him and then smiled he opened his mouth and she popped the morsel inside. He chewed and swallowed, watching her all the time, and then said thickly, ‘Thank you.’

  She nodded, their gaze holding for a few moments more before she resumed her seat. And suddenly, in spite of his hunger and concern and fear, he felt as if he’d been handed the moon, gift-wrapped and diamond-studded.

  It was later that night, lying beside each other in the three-quarter size bed without touching, that he began to talk of Gran and Granda Sutton who had passed away a few winters before. He talked like he had never been able to talk to her before, openly and without restraint. The darkness helped, that and her soft rejoinders that told him she knew how it was with his mam and da, and how things had been at home. When he had finished, David felt hot at just how much he’d revealed about himself.

  All was quiet for a time, and then Carrie said softly, ‘You shouldn’t have married me, David. You ought to have someone who can love you like you deserve to be loved.’ What must it have been like for him to grow up knowing his mother didn’t love him? And he had known it, she could tell even though he hadn’t actually said so. Perhaps Lillian and Walter felt the same way, she didn’t know, but she did know that the hurt in David had gone deep. He gave the appearance of being so sure of himself, so tough, but the kernel within the hard shell was tender. She wished it wasn’t. She didn’t want it to be, she thought suddenly, thinking in the same breath, you’re back to front and never mind the pony, lass, that’s what you are. But the more nice things she found out about him, the more he intruded into the part of herself she needed to keep separate from him, from any man.

  She didn’t know what she was going to do when the baby came. Of course it might not live, lots didn’t or were stillborn. She barely knew a family who hadn’t lost a number of bairns to sickness within the first few weeks of their lives or before their first birthdays. Her own mam had lost three between herself and the twins being born. She hoped it was stillborn, that would be quick and final. The thought of having to look at it every day and remember what had happened . . . She wouldn’t be able to bear it. But first she had to have it, and from what she’d gathered listening to the chatter of the married women when they were engaged in possing the clothes and linen in the big wooden tub in the backyard or stoking up the boiler in the washhouse, the pain was terrible. But she didn’t mind that; well, she did, but she could put up with it if it meant this thing inside her was gone. They said a child born in strife always had something the matter with it, a club foot or a twisted body; some were imbeciles like Nancy Gibb or Sally Prince who had big heads and gibbered and dribbled all the time, so what was hers going to be like, conceived in violence and horror? It would be a monstrosity, she knew it.

  The bed creaked as David stirred at the side of her, and then he said, ‘Don’t say I shouldn’t have married you, lass. For better or worse we made our vows before God and man, and’ - there was a slight pause before he continued - ‘I don’t regret it.’ He wanted to ask h
er if she felt the same but he was too afraid he would know when she lied. And again, because of the darkness he felt able to add, ‘You’ll feel better after the bairn’s born. You’re worn out and no wonder with this heat.’

  She didn’t care about the heat or the strike or living in this one room, none of it would have mattered if she could just have gone back in time to Renee’s wedding day and the girl she had been then. But she couldn’t say that. He wouldn’t understand and even if he did she daren’t go down that road. She mustn’t think about it, she could get by if she didn’t think about it.

  ‘Goodnight, David.’ She was lying on her side; with her belly so big she had found it was the only way to sleep these days and she always made sure she had her back to him although he had never touched her, except by accident or when he was asleep.

  ‘Carrie?’

  ‘What?’

  Her tone was flat and David said quietly, ‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter. Goodnight.’

  Why hadn’t he told her he loved her when she’d said he shouldn’t have married her? It had been the perfect opportunity to voice the words which forever hovered on his tongue but he just hadn’t been able to spit them out. Oh, he was stupid, useless. Worse than useless.

  He heaved on to his side, the movement abrupt. It was no good telling himself he didn’t need to voice it, that actions speak louder than words. Lasses put great store by those words, according to Walter. The Christmas before last when his brother had been so well oiled his breath knocked you backwards, he could remember Walter telling him that Renee always made him say he loved her before she’d have any making on. Not that that had any relevance in Carrie’s condition, of course.

  But he needed to say it. It was the truth, and once said it would be up to her what she made of it. But at least he would know that she knew.

  David didn’t let himself add here, whatever happened, because to do so would give form to the ever present spectre sitting on his shoulder, the little voice that whispered, you won’t keep her, you know that, don’t you? One day she’ll be gone. It’s just a question of how soon.

  Instead he forced his mind away from the still figure beside him, and thought about the march planned for the next morning. There had been many since the strike began, organised attempts to get people’s attention, but almost from the first the police had had orders to stamp down hard on such tactics. Many good men had been thrown into jail for ‘causing disaffection’, in spite of the fact that at the best of times ragtaggle miners were no threat to well-fed, hale and hearty policemen on big strong horses who used their batons to great effect. On the last march three days before, it had been miners nil, police eight, with six miners knocked unconscious and two with broken legs. He could understand there being a few broken noses and bloody heads when they were trying to stop the police escorting the blacklegs into the collieries, but a peaceful march? And now quite a few of the younger lads were arming themselves with anything from hammers to lumps of lead piping, which worried him.

  David frowned in the darkness. Still, all he could do was to stay close to his da and Walter so the three of them could look out for each other.

  He turned on his back once more and regulated his breathing to induce sleep, but it was a long time coming.

  When Ned and Walter knocked on the door the next morning, David was ready to leave.

  Carrie smiled at them all as she came to wave them off from the doorstep, but her voice was troubled when she said, ‘Look after yourselves, won’t you.’

  ‘Don’t you fret, lass.’ It was Ned who responded, adding, in an effort to reassure his daughter-in-law, ‘We’ll make sure the other fella comes off worse if there’s a punch-up. How’s that?’ and he brandished an old table leg he had under his jacket.

  Carrie’s expression made David hustle the other two away. ‘Me and Walter will be keeping him out of trouble, lass,’ he called over his shoulder in an effort to lighten the moment.

  ‘Keepin’ me out of trouble?’ Ned was indignant. ‘An’ who’ll be keepin’ you out of trouble while you’re keepin’ me, I’d like to know?’

  Walter shook his head. ‘Couldn’t you see she was worried, man?’ he asked with a glance at David. ‘It didn’t help showing her a cudgel, now did it?’

  Ned was genuinely amazed. ‘I thought it’d comfort her, knowin’ I’d brought somethin’ to protect us all with.’

  David and Walter gave up.

  Outside the colliery gates one of the union leaders gave the gathering a pep talk along the lines of ‘fight the good fight’ but no violence unless they were provoked, and then they were off. Along with other miners from Durham pits they were marching to Whitburn where a meeting had been organised on the beach.

  David saw Billy and Sandy close by them at one point, but although he felt Billy would have liked to speak, Sandy’s grim expression and quickening footsteps made it clear he was as bitter as ever.

  When the march reached the beach, a mass of other miners had already congregated there. There were a few women scattered amongst the men, something David disagreed with strongly. A march was no place for a woman, not when things could turn nasty. And today the mood was sombre, he could feel it. Some of the men had got so worked up by recent events they were spoiling for a fight, and the line of policemen on horses at the top of the beach looked just as ready to get stuck in.

  He glanced at them, noticing the way they were sitting quietly but all the time thudding their batons into the palms of their hands. And the horses were different beasts from the obliging animals they used down the pit. Great brutes these were, with teeth as big as pit props.

  The men from the Wearmouth pit were the last to arrive, and now that they were all assembled, one of the union leaders from the Whitburn colliery stepped on to an orange box and began to thank everyone for coming. It was what the police had been waiting for. The miner hadn’t said two words before the officer leading the police brought his horse right in front of the union official. The officer was accompanied by a constable on foot carrying a pair of handcuffs which he swung as he walked.

  David sensed what was about to happen, but even as he turned to Walter and said, ‘Let’s get Da out of this,’ the mounted officer began to shout that he was making an arrest under the Unlawful Assembly Act. One of the miners hit out and sent the constable sprawling. Then all hell broke loose.

  The mounted policemen galloped into the throng, lashing out with their truncheons indiscriminately, their horses trampling men and women alike. There was yelling and screaming, the crowd bunched together, surging this way and that. David found he couldn’t move. His father and Walter were only two or three people away, but hemmed in as he was he couldn’t reach them. Then he found himself swept away in a press of bodies and it was all he could do to stay on his feet. Blood began to flow as people were beaten to the ground. Just in front of him he saw one young lad, who couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, hit so hard his skull caved in. Bones were being smashed, people were being mangled under the hooves of the horses and were crumpling all around him, and still the assault continued. Those who could get away were scattering in all directions, some of them chased by police.

  For a moment David caught sight of his father and Walter. They were scrambling out of the way of a mounted officer, Ned’s cap gone and blood pouring from a gash above his eye, but then the ranks closed again and he lost sight of them. He tried to force his way in their direction and suddenly found himself in front of Billy. Carrie’s brother was caught like a rat in a trap between two mounted police, and before David could do anything, the younger of the riders brought his truncheon down with all his might on Billy’s head, laughing as he did so.

  David saw his old friend’s knees buckle but somehow Billy managed to stay on his feet, clearly more terrified of the razor-sharp hooves than the other officer who was raising his arm to strike. This individual was a big, thickset man whose arms were bulging in his uniform. This swine was going to brain Billy for sure.
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br />   David didn’t think about what he was going to do; instinct took over and he grabbed the horse’s saddle. He swung his body into the side of the beast, trying to dismount its rider, but it was futile. The saddle was tightly strapped on with buckles the size of a man’s hand, but the policeman was distracted and began to hit out at David’s hands. With the first policeman now belting the stuffing out of the people to the right, Billy had the few seconds he needed. Just as the agonising pain in his hands forced David to let go, a surge in the crowd pushed Billy away from the horses and out of sight.

  A minute or two later David found his father and Walter, who had been looking for him. Ned was the worse for wear but still standing, and Walter was relatively unscathed. ‘Let’s get the hell out of this lot,’ muttered Walter, but this was easier said than done. Eventually, however, they were running and stumbling back the way they had marched just a short while before, away from the screaming and shouting and smell of horse dung. When they reached the end of the bay, David came to a halt. He and Walter were more or less holding their father on his feet now. All around them miners lurched past, some blaspheming, others shocked into angry silence. The more able-bodied were helping and in some cases carrying those who were badly injured.