by Alan Tansley
Penelope and the children were fine, and regularly wrote to Mahala and Joseph. They always received a reply, but Penelope detected a hint that everything wasn’t rosy in their area, and wished she knew more.
Most of the mine workers’ ancestors had originated from the exhausted Staffordshire pottery area. They had walked north for three days with their families and possessions to find work in the Yorkshire coalfields. When they were hired, they immediately settled and built their homes, but now everything had backfired on them when the colliery bosses purposely closed their mines to cause them more hardship.
One early autumn Sunday, George, Florence and Georgina had dinner with the Websters and the Cotton parents. It was the time of year when root vegetables were to be lifted, and they had five calves and twelve piglets to take to the market.
A solemn Mahala sat down to eat her dinner, and then deliberately said, ‘Unfortunately, there were four more deaths in the village this week.’
Joseph’s grip tightened on his knife and fork. Staring straight ahead, he snapped, ‘Don’t start again, woman.’
‘Mum, will you let it be, please?’ said George, trying to keep the peace. Turning to Georgina, he said, ‘Wipe your chin love.’
Dinner was eaten in silence as the hosts were clearly at loggerheads with each other, and no one wanted to interfere. Even Mr Webster respected their argument, and trying to ease the situation, they both complimented the food and departed for home unusually early.
Later that evening, after George, Florence, and Georgina had left for home, a big argument began when Mahala asked Joseph if it was possible to provide meat and vegetables to the village to help the needy.
‘Over my dead body,’ he shouted, and before she could say anything else, he yelled ‘Have any of the other farmers in the district donated anything? I doubt it very much! As far as I am concerned, their ignorance in leaving my son’s name off that monument was the final straw.’
With tears in her eyes, Mahala pleaded, ‘Joseph, there are children dying. Have you no compassion at all for them?’
‘You know very well I would go to the end of the earth to feed my children. Some of those idle buggers won’t go to the end of the street, so the answer is no.’
‘You are so bloody impossible at times,’ she shouted, and marched towards the door in a temper. As she moved to open it, it did so on its own to reveal George in the doorway. He stared and stood back to let her storm out.
Hearing the door slam after her, George shrugged his shoulders, approached the table, leaned on it, and looked at his dad, asking, ‘What have you done now?’
‘She’s on about us feeding some of the people in the village.’
‘Yes, it’s bad news for them, dad. I was going to ask I could take them two or three bags of milled wheat. It only takes a bit more grinding to make flour, and then at least they could make themselves some bread.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, George, she’s bloody got you at it as well. Hellfire, come on then. Mind you, we’ll use the cart. That bloody horse needs some exercise. He’s getting too fat,’ moaned Joseph, who grabbed his hat and set off.
George smiled when they left the house to enter the stable. Ostensibly busily taking in the washing, Mahala watched them and smiled, as if she knew what they were about to do.
Thirty minutes later, the cart was loaded with four bags of milled wheat, turnips, carrots, potatoes, two sides of pork, and ten necked chickens. George waved to his mum when he set off.
Seeing his dad enter their house, and knowing that he would get some more grief from his mum, he smiled as he continued. However, twenty minutes later, he stared at the memorial as he passed it. He eyed the church, which was uninviting in the darkness; although his intentions were good, George was well aware that no one would ever thank or reward him.
When he reached the middle of the village, he halted and glanced around, feeling that sense of being observed by invisible watchers. He jumped down to release the pin so the cart tipped up, spilling its contents onto the pathway.
Pulling the cart’s body down, he refitted the pin, jumped up on the cart, and picking up the reins, flipped them onto the horse’s backside. He set off without looking behind him, and when he reached the monument, he again stopped and stared at it.
He had been told that Henry had saved his life, but he had no recollection of it. There had been no way of thanking him, and he wished he knew the details of the event. ‘One way or another, your name is going on there, our kid,’ he murmured to himself, ‘else I will smash that bloody thing to smithereens.’
As winter approached, Joseph and George had spread the muck and ploughed the fields. Using the tractor gave them more time, so they began to turn one of the old stables into a tractor shed, storing it undercover to shelter it from the elements.
When it was parked in its own garage, they installed a paraffin tank a week later. Fuel was now on tap, and there was little chance of it running out. Any maintenance could be carried out under cover, and this included repairs to any implements as well.
The railway company had also updated their rolling-stock, and as they had more modern engines, travelling times were drastically reduced. Progress seemed inevitable in all directions, but there was serious and disturbing news from Featherstone; army troops were ordered to fire on fanatical crowd of colliers. It was rumoured that two miners had been killed, but the newspaper stated that the crowd had quickly dispersed, ‘And so would I,’ moaned Joseph, and closed the paper.
‘It’s very unfortunate, but there have been more infant deaths in the village,’ said Mahala, knitting a cardigan.
‘We have some spare potatoes, better let George take them tomorrow. You never know, some might even say thank you this time,’ moaned Joseph, staring sarcastically at her.
‘Oh give over; it sounds like you are turning this into a feud.’
‘A feud, you say? I wouldn’t care, woman but not one of them villagers has even had the guts to call here and say thank you for keeping them alive. But I bet their men folk called in at that new tavern; that bloody place still makes a profit.’
Chapter 31
By the beginning of June 1930, Timothy and his family hadn’t visited the farm for three years. Timothy’s posting abroad was coming to an end, primarily because the government was running out of money. As economics were not usually taught to politicians, their only solution was cutbacks all round.
When he returned home, Timothy thought himself lucky to have been given a month’s paid leave. Without hesitation, they gave the maid two weeks off, hoping that she would look after their property for the other two, and when the house was locked up, they all travelled north.
This time, Timothy wired Mrs Webster in advance, asking her to hire them a pony and trap, which would make their journey much easier and quicker. She arranged it all and welcomed them. After they exchanged quick greetings, Timothy, Penelope, Laura and James continued to the farm.
Joseph was the first to see them as he brought in a cartful of hay. Waving, he followed them to the farmhouse. Again, it was all hugs and kisses, except for George, who was at home trimming hedges to pass the time. Nearly all the hay was safely in and stored, and now it was just a matter of maintenance until harvest.
After many more hugs and kisses, Mahala was all smiles, especially when the children followed her into the kitchen and tried to help her prepare dinner.
Timothy sat with Joseph at the table. His father enquired about his present work in the army, knowing he would be more up to date than the last lot of newspapers left by the brewery agent. ‘Since the war ended, dad, nearly all countries seem to be in conflict with their neighbours, claiming that they are too near to one another, or the borders are wrong, or that they just don’t like each other’s religion.’
‘I got that opinion as well, lad. In the Daily Herald the other month, it stated the Middle East could be at war next. They were tipping it to flare up around the Persian Gulf, but really it’s a toss-up wh
o would win out there, it’s all bloody desert.’
‘I can vouch for that, dad, but the biggest problem is brewing in Germany again. That Hitler chap is evil; he is winding up their people something rotten, and building up their country’s armed forces like nobody’s business. It was brought to our attention that we must re-arm, and if we don’t develop at the same speed, we will get sucked into the fascist factory.’
‘Good God, Timothy, is it that bad?’
‘It is and it’s all being kept quiet at the moment, but if I was to tell you what we have been informed by our spies abroad, you would call me a liar and not believe any of it,’ replied Timothy. He stood up and began to pour out another cup of tea.
Joseph considered the consequences of being invaded by another country, understanding that ordinary people like himself would be no opposition to any advances of a trained army. He was also very aware that the First World War had left the country in such financial disarray that badly maimed troops had been sent home to their families without compensation or organised medical treatment. He doubted very much whether the English public would stand for another war so quickly again.
‘Tell me, dad, did our George receive any money from the army?’
‘Not before moving into his house he didn’t, and I don’t think he ever mentioned anything to his mum. Well, he’s never mentioned it to me. Of late, George hasn’t been one for conversing much—he’s getting very snappy and irritable.’ ’
‘When I go back after my holiday I’ll check about him, because I know some have received something.’
‘Only some have? All those poor limbless buggers, and there were many more bombed senseless with no way of earning any money for the rest of their lives, and that’s all the thanks they got? It’s bloody despicable.’
‘That might be the case, dad, but unfortunately not many records were kept when some of the men were sent home urgently. I did my job correctly, but many in authority didn’t.’
‘Aye, and you can bet some were ordered not to as well,’ snapped Joseph, staring at him.
From the roaring twenties had emerged the sublime thirties, and then all of a sudden it was a time for production. This time, workers were being paid for it, although not much more than in the late twenties. The main reason people had extra money was that they worked longer hours and had little time to spend it. Decent commodities were rare, and the main birthday present was still a hand-knitted pullover along with an apple or orange. Again the ‘haves’ still had it, and the ‘have-nots’ still had nothing. Lord Baden-Powell’s scouting movement seemed to be the only thing flourishing, and this was mainly because the children were taught how to make a fire and prepare a meal, which they were then allowed to eat.
The prosperity in the cities began to spread into the suburbs. Even the village began to prosper with more and better-built houses being erected, bringing in a new influx of neighbours. Mr Webster was always kept busy with new trainees when the mine owner decided to open another shaft, hoping to sell more coal.
Even the train station expanded; it now had two sidings where spare carriages were kept for overspill, and even a separate line branching into the colliery sidings where coal was loaded—horses for transport were now nearly a thing of the past.
Employment and employees were plentiful, but the pay was still low. Joseph regularly maintained his tractor and it served him well. Despite having had a go driving it, George didn’t use it much, because he couldn’t stamp on the brake to lock the wheels independently. But with their new binder oiled and greased and ready to go, they were all ready for harvest.
That evening at dinner, Mahala, joined by the children, asked Penelope if they could all catch the train to Sheffield to do some shopping.
‘I don’t like when she says “do some shopping”,’ moaned Joseph.
‘I do mean all of us,’ said Mahala.
Joseph leaned forward over the table, but didn’t raise his voice because of the children. Calmly, he asked, ‘What about the farm?’
‘It’ll be here when we get back. This family has never had a day out together, ever. You can also get your wallet out and buy us all dinner, and that is something else you’ve never done.’
‘Oh please, granddad,’ begged an innocent-looking James.
Joseph turned to him and saw an expression on his face that was very similar to Henry’s when he had wanted his own way. The resemblance made him have to rest back in his chair. Mahala stared at him, about to continue her demands, when Joseph took the wind out of her sails by saying, ‘Alright then. I think the first train’s at ten. Timothy, will you walk with me down to George’s and we’ll let him and Florence know.’
‘Very well; there’s no time like the present, dad.’
The next morning, Timothy used the pony and trap to pick up George, Florence, and Georgina, then James with Laura, before continuing to the station, leaving them in the capable hands of Mrs Webster. Timothy then returned for Joseph, Mahala and Penelope, and laughed, hearing his mum teasing his dad about forgetting his wallet.
The children were playing games when the adults arrived. A sorrowful-looking Mrs Webster approached Penelope and handed her a new type of communication, a telegram, which was a printed message.
While reading it, Penelope sighed, and then told Timothy that her Aunt Lucy had died. ‘Oh no, right then, we will all return to the farm,’ said Mahala, and saw the disappointment in the children’s faces.
‘No, please, there is nothing I can do, so why spoil it for everyone? If you have a forwarding address, I will quickly send a reply,’ said Penelope, and turning to Mahala, she asked, ‘How long have I got before the train comes?’
Penelope discussed their return with Timothy before she sent a telegram to her cousin, and smiled when she heard the children cheer as the smoke from the train appeared in the distance.
Travelling to Sheffield and having a day out with her meant everything to Mahala; she even enjoyed watching Joseph’s face when he paid for their dinners in a café. It made her year, and even George couldn’t stop giggling, knowing it wasn’t his father’s nature to waste money.
In the end, and without too much persuasion, Joseph bought each of the children some clothing, but as he paid, he whispered, ‘At least it will save Mahala from making them.’
All the way home, with her arm linked in Joseph’s, Mahala had a big smile on her face, knowing that he had spent nearly thirty pounds during the day. That was a vast amount of money, twenty weeks wages for some, but Joseph felt satisfied to have treated his family, especially the children for once, and enjoyed the big smiles on their faces.
When they arrived home, and after Penelope and Florence had washed up, Joseph managed to wipe the smiles from all faces in one go. ‘Right then,’ he began, ‘seeing as we are all here in one room, so to speak, last week I spoke with the parson. Seeing as our Henry is buried next to his grandparents, and great grandparents, and, if my memory serves me correct, also great-great-grandparents, I have asked the vicar if I can purchase that particular corner where they are buried in the churchyard so it can be used by the rest of our family. He said he didn’t foresee any problems and would consult the burial records before drawing out a boundary.’
George sat on the edge of his seat, saying, ‘Dad, don’t you think you are being a bit premature? I mean, let’s discuss it later, and not in front of the children.’
‘That I don’t agree with, because my parents asked me to look after all their graves when I was young and I never did. Yes, I did forget, so after harvest when we get the all-clear from the parson, I will border it with dressed stone and make it more presentable as a family plot.’
George glanced at Florence, then asked, ‘Mum, where are your relations buried?’
‘Funnily enough, my grandparents are buried next to your dad’s, but I don’t know where their parents are buried. To be honest, I can’t remember them.’
‘Right, it’s time for a drink,’ said Joseph, and opened the cup
board to take out a bottle of brandy.
Two days later, there were tears when Timothy and his family left for home. He had one week of his leave left, but as he and Penelope were now aware of the new telegram service, he knew that he could get a message to his parents, or vice-versa, within a few hours.
For the first time, Joseph used a bit of inside information from Timothy and decided to harvest the corn, thrash it straight away and sell it on to the highest bidder. He warned the corn merchant of his intentions, and smiled to see his carriage pull up in the fold yard.
The corn merchant’s first job was to inspect the corn in the sack. As per usual, he took a handful and blew it clean, then took a few grains in the mouth to soak and taste it, making up his mind as to whether or not it was suitable for brewing. Joseph didn’t give a hoot as he had another buyer already lined up, but he listened to the agent’s verdict and smiled when he found it to be good. Joseph remained po-faced when the agent made an offer, but impatiently sighed, then said, ‘Sorry, mate, you know me; you’ll have to do much better than that.’
‘Joseph, will you give me a break, please? Times are hard and money is scarce.’
‘You are telling me that? I’ve lost money all year. In fact, I’m in two minds whether to grow any more barley at all; it’s just not worth it. We are having a board meeting before Christmas and then if we haven’t made anything, that’s it. I’ll fill the fields full of potatoes; they always sell well.’
‘Joseph, you must be kidding me. You are one of my best quality customers. It’s perfection all the way with you, and I have nobody else in your league. Please reconsider. Good brewing barley is getting scarcer.’
‘Look. The corn’s backing up and spilling over, and I have to go. See me in two hours,’ snapped Joseph, watching the merchant walk off and trying to suppress the crafty smile on his face.
