She slowed but didn’t stop, turning and walking backwards as she answered him. ‘He’ll be over by the pigeons. They’re behind the beer tent, I think.’ Ah, so the lad had won but she knew he would.
Then she was flying on again through the crowds, slowing only as the shooting gallery came into sight. She patted her hat, touched her curls, straightened her bodice, hating her corset as always. She fluffed out her skirt, checked her gleaming boots and walked slowly, looking everywhere but at the gallery, letting her breathing calm, hoping Simon Preston was there but not daring to search for him. The spring evening was darkening as the clouds built. Would it rain? She hoped not.
‘Evie.’ Jack was heading towards her from the direction of the beer tent, shouldering his way through, tipping his cap in apology. His face was bruised, his eye swollen, his nose looked broken: there was blood leaking from it. He had been drinking, his gait was unsteady. He was being slapped on the back by those he passed. He was close enough now for her to smell the beer on his breath.
‘Evie, you should have put a bet on me.’
She said, ‘Are you all right? Our da did put a bet on. He believed in you. He always has. You should believe in him.’ His arm was round her. He pulled her to him and whispered, ‘I always used to.’
He oozed sweat. She drew back.
‘Evie,’ she heard again. Simon was ambling towards them from the shooting gallery. ‘Evie, Jack said you might be here.’
His red hair shone, his face was tanned in a way a pitman’s would never be. Gardening suited him, the daylight suited him. He was beautiful. Jack turned, staggering slightly. ‘Well, Si Preston, time you had a beer and swilled out the rotten taste of Easterleigh Hall.’ He slung his arm over Simon’s shoulders, winking at Evie. ‘Or are you going to have a few minutes with our Evie because you’re not let out much, lad, are you?’
Simon mock-punched Jack. ‘You won, man. Never in doubt. I saw the end, by, you were on fire.’
Jack shot a look at Evie. ‘Not to be wondered at, is it.’ His voice was harsh.
‘Jack,’ Evie warned, wanting to pull him away now, wanting to take him home before he flared again.
‘So, come on Evie, when do you start? Me da told me the news. Tomorrow, is it?’ Simon was grinning at her. ‘T’other one fell by the wayside, so they say. It’s the talk of the servants’ hall.’
Evie felt herself grow cold and then hot. She took hold of Jack’s arm. ‘I’m going to get him back to Mam, Simon. I’ll come and find you later.’ She ignored Simon’s look of confusion. Jack was swaying, a frown gathering. He let himself be led a yard or two, but then he pulled free and lurched back to Simon, gripping his shoulders. ‘When does she start what? Where? What servants’ hall?’
Simon flashed a look of dawning comprehension at Evie who shook her head, her mouth dry. She half raised her hand, but to no purpose. She couldn’t stop this now.
Jack shook Simon. ‘What the hell is going on around here?’
It seemed to Evie that the music was pounding more than ever, that the raucous shouts of a group of pitmen nearby were even louder. Groups were gathering into tight knots, some talking, some tossing coins and betting on the outcome. Some had fallen silent as they watched them. One man, Martin Dore, Jack’s marra, was walking unsteadily towards them, his face flushed, the drink in him. He had a glass in his hand, half full.
‘Jack, not here.’ Evie tugged him along, waving Martin away. People started to talk amongst themselves again, and always the music played. Jack hesitated and turned back to Simon. She dragged at his arm, speaking urgently. ‘I have another job, that’s all. I’m to be assistant cook for the Bramptons. I have a plan. I need Easterleigh Hall. I am going to use them. I want a training, for us. I’ll explain but not here. Come on.’
Simon moved to help her. She stopped him. ‘Howay, Simon. Let it be.’ She held up her hand to Martin too, who had started to approach again. He stopped, uncertain. It was like herding a load of sheep, for pity’s sake.
She thought she’d reached Jack because he let her lead him from the shooting range, well away, slipping through the throng. Some of the men they passed were smoking roll-ups, some of the children were eating toffee apples. Now the sweet smell of boiling sugar vied with suckling pig.
Jack let her slip her arm through his as they approached the swing boats but in the fading light he stopped, drew himself erect, staggered, pulled away and turned to her, stared and then spat full in her face. He wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘You too, my Evie. You as well. And I had to hear it from someone else.’ He staggered again. His nose was bleeding properly now. He wiped the blood away, but it continued to flow.
As he spoke again his teeth gleamed red. ‘At least Da had the courage to tell me to me face. You’re serving them, stuffing food in their gobs. You could go anywhere but you are working for that bastard. I don’t have a choice but you do. You could go anywhere for your . . . training.’ He was sneering.
She interrupted, ‘I can’t go anywhere else. I owe Miss Manton so much. I made a promise . . .’
He waved her silent, snatching off his cap, punching it into his other hand. ‘You know how I feel about them. First Da and now you. Don’t you understand, you’ve both tethered me? How am I going to fight the bosses now? If I do, you’ll lose your job, because they’ll know you’re a Forbes, and Da’ll lose his for the same reason and we’ll be out of the house.’ He drew breath, and now his voice was quiet and cold. ‘I hate you, Evie Forbes. I’m glad you’re going. You’ve got options, Da’s got options, I’ve got bugger all.’
His spittle was rolling down her cheek, sliding on to her jaw, and then her neck, her collar. She wiped it and out of habit checked for black phlegm. It was clear. Simon came running then, pushing between them, panting, ‘That’s enough, Jack.’ He seemed slight against Jack’s strength. ‘That’s more than enough, man. Go and sober up.’
Jack’s eyes were glazed and full of tears as he stared at her long and hard and then turned away, walking erect, not a stagger, not a sway. She called after him, ‘I’d already thought about my name, it’s all right. I used Anston. Da’s already explained to you what he will do when it comes to a strike. He’ll resign. You can go on with your union work.’
Jack didn’t break stride, just kept on walking, away from her. The crowds parted before him, and closed in his wake. Martin stumbled after him, catching him up, hooking an arm over his shoulder. Jack shrugged him off but Martin took no notice. They were marras. They worked the seam side by side. They belonged together, always. His arm went round Jack’s shoulders again and this time it stayed.
None in the crowd looked at either Jack or Evie. They gave them their privacy because they were their marras and neighbours. The music was still pounding, laughter was in the air.
She wanted to call, to run after him but she felt Simon’s arm around her shoulder, his sleeve wiping away the remaining spittle, his face close to hers, so close. She felt his breath as he said, ‘Leave him for now. I’ll follow and make sure he’s safe, and Martin too. They’re so drunk they’ll end up in a ditch if they’re not careful. I’ll try and talk to him. I’m sorry, I should have thought but don’t fret, none at Easton will give you away after this, pet. It will be Evie Anston, and most of the staff are from away and those that aren’t I’ll warn off.’
He was smiling, his blue eyes so kind, but Evie couldn’t think, not of anything. Not of the Hall, not her name, her mother’s maiden name, the hotel or anything any more. Jack had spat in her face, her beloved brother had not only spat in her face but had walked away from her, and she felt as though her heart was tearing apart inch by inch.
Chapter Three
EVIE SAT IN the armchair all Saturday night. It was her mother’s turn to sleep in bed as there were no shifts and no pitmen coming in or going out at all hours, needing to be fed and bathed. Evie had not slept but had waited for Jack, who had not come, and now it was morning. She knew Simon and Martin would look after him and when Si
mon had to return to the Hall someone else would take on the role. It was what people did round here. But she wanted Jack. She wanted to talk to him before her father took her in the cart, an hour before midday. They were to have ham butties on the way as a special treat; ham her mother had boiled from the pig they had bred in the allotment. Then there would still be time for Da to turn the cart around and head to Fordington for sea-coal scavenging.
It was the first time she would not be with them, feeling the cold wind beating against her, tearing at her skirt and lashing at her hessian apron which would be black by the time they turned for home. Would Jack go? She checked the time. Eight o’clock. Everyone was sleeping. Sunday mornings were like that, but even more so after Gala day.
She brought in buckets of water from the communal tap, just missing Mrs Grant who was entering her backyard with a bucket in either hand. She crept up as silently as possible into the box room, changing into her best clothes. She made herself porridge and ate it. She went into the yard again, her shawl pulled around her. The trunk lent by Miss Manton was packed with her uniforms and her crisp white aprons as well as her hessian ones. She sat on the bench her father had made from driftwood and which he had set against the brick wall opposite the pigeon loft so he could hear and watch the loves of his life.
The spring sun was full on her face and she didn’t care that it would darken her skin. The family rose, ate, busied themselves. No one came out to her. No one spoke of Jack. She sat alone, listening to the sounds of the street, watching the sparrows which fed on crumbs her mother put out every evening. ‘So the wee ones could have their breakfast,’ she would say. How long would it be until Evie was here again, really here, as part of her family? Could she ever resume her place if Jack hated her?
After the slowest morning of her life the grandfather clock struck eleven. Her mother had packed bait tins for her and her da, who was picking up Old Saul, the Galloway pony that they shared with Alec Preston, Simon’s da. He would hitch up their shared cart at the allotment and return here. He would line the cart with sacking to try to keep the trunk free of sleck. She paced the yard but Jack still didn’t come.
Her father came to the back door, a blanket over his arm to put on the cart seat to keep her skirt clean. ‘It’s time, hinny,’ he said. The sun was warm, the wind gentle. It should have been a lovely day.
Timmie came into the yard, snatching off his cap and running to her. He hugged her so tightly that he squeezed the breath from her. She held him, and laughed. He was the image of Jack and her da right down to the black hair and the cock-bird bearing, whereas she was the dead spit of her mam with the same deep chestnut curls. Their eyes were all dark brown, though. She leaned away, their eyes on a level. When had he grown so tall? He was barely thirteen. ‘I’ll be back in two weeks, bonny lad, on my afternoon off so I’ll be sea-coaling with you in the flick of a lamb’s tail.’
‘I don’t want you to go, our Evie,’ he said.
‘I’ve got to, Timmie, you know we have to save to buy Froggett’s house.’
He pulled away, kicking at the path. ‘I’ll be down the pit soon and earning more so there’s no need for you to leave.’
She sighed. Mr Davies the pit manager had long ago told all the miners that they’d lose their houses if their sons didn’t become Easton pitmen. It was this, as well as the freedom for Jack to press for better conditions, that had focused her on the future.
Her mother’s arms were tight around her next, her plump body as yielding as ever. ‘Do as Miss Manton said and look after Mrs Moore, pet. Don’t worry about Jack, the daft beggar knows he’s in the wrong. All will be well in that direction, you mark my words.’ All will be well was a family saying, but did it mean anything?
Her da was waiting on the cart. All the neighbours lined the street, waving as Old Saul clipped along the cobbles, jolting them this way and that. The conical slag heaps overlooking them were seething and fuming, the winding engines glinting in the sun, and over everything hung the smell of sulphur. She waved, smiled, but inside she was empty because the one person she was looking for had not come.
They left Jennings Street, turned into Norton Street. Her da placed his hand over hers. She kept the smile fixed on her face. ‘Where shall we have the butties, Da?’
He didn’t answer; instead he grinned and nodded towards the road ahead. It was Jack, walking in the street, his arms outstretched, flagging down the cart. He didn’t look at her but went to her father’s side. ‘I’ll take her, Da.’ It was an order. Her da glanced at her and she nodded, her throat tight because Jack was pale and grim, and his two black eyes stood out, his nose was crooked, his lip was split. This she hadn’t noticed yesterday. Perhaps it was a later fight. He had not once looked at her.
The two men changed places. Jack tossed his father a purse. ‘From the fight.’ They nodded to one another, which was as good a rapprochement as one could wish for. Her shoulders sagged with relief. He shook the reins. ‘Walk on, you daft beggar.’ Her shoulders rose again at the coldness of his tone.
They took the high road out of the village, heading north. It was tarmacked for the convenience of the Bramptons’ cars. Alongside the road, the river Tine ran thick and sleck-flecked. The journey would take an hour at Old Saul’s leisurely pace. He was a pony not inclined to action unless given a good thwack across the rump. Jack merely held the reins and stared ahead. They’d need to come out of the valley, over the hill to the next hill on which stood Easterleigh Hall. Old Saul clopped along past the row of hawthorns which ended in the Cross Trees crossroads. There were three trees, and it was the tallest spruce, the middle one, on which highwaymen and poachers were once hung. Here, Jack flicked the reins and turned left. Evie spoke now. ‘We need to stay on the road.’
Jack stared ahead. ‘Not if we go to the beck. We need to eat.’ It was where they often went. His voice was quiet and tired now. He rolled up his sleeves and they swayed and jerked with the progress of the cart, his hands moving on the reins. His knuckles were cut and swollen, his arm too. His ear was bruised. Her heart ached for him. He shouldn’t have to do this, his job was enough, for God’s sake. He had to come out of the pit, he had to. She put her hand to her cheek where his spittle had landed. He said, ‘Forgive me.’
She said, ‘Always.’
They jerked downhill, in and out of the ruts made by previous carts. Either side there were fields in which sheep grazed, fields that she and her family would de-thistle if required. Froggett always gave them first refusal because they worked so hard. It all helped the house fund. She turned. The slag heaps loomed behind them. What had been here before the pit and the village? Fields like this. Old Saul huffed, the cartwheel slid out of the rut again. She held the side of the seat, hesitated, then murmured, ‘Forgive me.’
‘Always,’ he whispered.
The beck was only ten minutes further. At the end of the lane, by the gorse bushes, he pulled up and jumped down, tying Old Saul to the fence. Evie started to clamber from her side but his voice was sharp. ‘No, wait.’ She did. He came and lifted her, slinging her over his shoulder. ‘Hey,’ she shouted.
‘Can’t have you ankle-deep in mud for the gentry, can we?’ He reached into the cart and took the wicker basket with the bait tins, and the blanket from the front seat. He carried her as easily as he would have carried a sack of coal and just as inelegantly. She started to laugh and he joined her, and it was almost like it had always been. It was only when he’d thrown the blanket down on the bank and poked it flat with his boot that he let her down. For a moment they looked at one another. ‘I’d never hurt you deliberately, bonny lad,’ she said.
‘Nor I you. I will never drink like that again. I will never treat anyone as I treated you.’ Somewhere he’d washed. Somewhere he’d had some sleep but not a lot, probably at Martin’s house. She said, ‘You’ll drink again.’
He grinned. ‘I won’t treat anyone like that.’
‘I know you won’t. We hurt you. It’s over.’
&
nbsp; They sat side by side, his arm around her shoulder. The beck was clear and clean and trickled over the dam they had built years ago, so it was deep enough to swim. Across on the other bank willows draped their fronds into water and sparrows sang. She said, ‘Miss Manton said that she could get me into Easterleigh Hall and her old cook would teach me all she knew. I have to go there because I have promised to protect Mrs Moore, whose hands are sore with the rheumatics, for as long as possible in return for Miss Manton’s goodness. I want to go there too because I need to see you all as often as I can. I have to go there because I would have to wait for much longer to get a post like this without Miss Manton’s influence. I need to go because I want you all out of the pit, Jack. You know I want us to get a hotel. I want us to be safe. I can do it. I can cook . . .’
Jack put his hand over her mouth. ‘Enough. Enough.’ He was laughing. Then he became more serious than she had ever known him. ‘I was wrong. It’s your life. I hate you working for the Bramptons but you know I don’t hate you. I was just angry and I’ve had my punishment from Mam.’ He rubbed his ear. ‘By, she’d win any damn fist fight with one hand tied behind her back. The thing is, Evie, I want to stay in the pit. It’s what I am, a pitman. My marras are pitmen. I belong. It’s my family as much as you are.’
He removed his hand from her mouth and she tried to interrupt but he drove on. ‘What’s more, it’s my duty. Thanks to Mam and Da and Jeb I can talk the talk when I need to, to try and make sure the men have the best that they deserve and that the pit is as safe as it can be, and that we all earn what we should. There’s so much to do and I can’t, don’t, want to walk away from that but neither do I want Timmie in it, so you’re right. We have to get the house.’
He was picking at the blanket. The sparrows flew above the willows. The sky was blue and clouds skidded along in the breeze. She wanted to speak but knew he had more to say. ‘I know why Da did it and if he can change the way management behave that’s great, but I can’t see it. What’s more, he’s putting himself in danger. He’ll have to knock those damned props out of worked-out seams to be reused and as much as he tests the roof, it can come down. You know that. I know that. I don’t want him hurt. Christ, his chest’s bad enough without that worry.’
Easterleigh Hall Page 3
