Her thighs overhung the stool, her plump fingers were tapping the table, the nails spotless, her grey hair was tightly wound into a bun, her cap sat snugly, her stomach fought against her apron, her pale blue dress was smudged with flour, her sleeves were rolled up.
Evie felt every muscle in her body relaxing as she looked at the set of Mrs Moore’s jaw. The woman was a hero, and Evie knew she would worship at her feet and they could cross-stitch that thought and stick it where their economies took them. Had Miss Manton influenced Mrs Moore, or was it the other way round? There would be plenty of time to find out.
Mrs Moore was patting the stool next to her. ‘Sit down, pet, and tell me what cakes you’ll make for the servants’ tea and then I’ll show you round the servants’ hall which you must lay up for four o’clock. Now, don’t you go getting irate or upset when the staff come trooping in saying nothing, but looking plenty. Just remember who you are. You’re my assistant cook and without us the whole pumped-up ship would founder. So put them shoulders back and let’s do some baking. Annie is getting herbs for the dinner from the gardeners but she’ll be back for her cake, you mark my words.’
Evie smiled, knowing that though she could smell the booze on Mrs Moore’s breath it would be a privilege to protect her.
She asked where the ginger was kept. Mrs Moore heaved herself to her feet, wincing. ‘Whatever for?’
‘The cakes. Lil said . . .’
Mrs Moore shook her head. ‘Spiteful girl, that one. Mrs Green and Mr Harvey have a particular disliking for ginger.’ She nodded at Evie’s book. ‘I daresay you’ve a nice jam sponge in there. Miss Manton’s father was one of the best bakers in Newcastle and he taught her a thing or two. Her mother was long gone when I arrived, French she was, pretty little thing, but she left our Grace with a thing about others speaking another language. Probably quite right. Her brother, Edward, was always destined for the Church and wouldn’t know a good sponge cake if it came and hit him on the nose. Good sort but not of this world. Not quite sure how he manages to cross the street on his own.’
Evie was torn between amusement and intrigue. Miss Manton did not talk of such familiar things, only of the life to which women should aspire. Mrs Moore was watching her. ‘She’s a good woman. She particularly wants you to do well and that’s why she asked me to take you under my wing. She wants to do well herself. Is she still going to them women’s meetings?’
Evie was searching for flour and sugar in the earthenware containers lined up on a series of shelves at the end of the kitchen, and nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘So, are you going to them meetings too?’ Mrs Moore asked.
Evie headed for the scullery to wash her hands and pretended she hadn’t heard. She didn’t know how much to trust people and bosses didn’t like their servants talking of anyone’s rights, let alone joining groups that did. Mrs Moore laughed gently as she returned, her finger tracing down her own recipe book. ‘That was answer enough. I’ll let you know the window that you can unlatch so you can get in if you’re ever likely to be late. The doors are locked at 9 p.m. There’s a creaky step that’ll alert the new head housemaid who’s a stickler for that sort of thing. Now, get on with the tea, we have just enough time. Them upstairs don’t start their dinner till eight, and downstairs have theirs at seven. I’ve a couple of nice ham and chicken pies planned for the servants which you can make. It’ll include upstairs’ lunch leavings. I need you to make the clear soup for their dinner. Can you do that?’ Her glance was keen. The glass-fronted cupboards reflected her movements.
Evie nodded. ‘Yes, of course I can, Mrs Moore.’ She felt sure now.
The cakes smelt good as the range did its job. She carried through a tray piled with the plates and cutlery into the servants’ hall. Her back argued with the weight, but though there were several people sitting around in armchairs and sofas, some reading magazines, some sewing, some snoring, no one helped. Stuffing oozed out of splits in the old sofas. Some maids sat on benches at the table, sewing their lisle stockings even though the light was bad. What could you expect if you were underground? Two footmen sprawled at the other end of the table, playing cards. No one said hello.
By four o’clock the gas lights had been lit and the staff settled themselves at the table. Upstairs was electrified, but attic and basement were not. Still no one spoke, even when Evie came in with the tray of cakes. Mr Harvey presided at the far end, Mrs Green at the other. Mrs Moore sat adjacent to Mrs Green. Lil was smiling at Evie, patting her blonde hair and adjusting her cap. Evie placed a large jam sponge in front of Mr Harvey and another down Mrs Green’s end. She placed another three along the rectangular table. She placed a small ginger cake in front of Lil. Lil looked at it, and pursed her lips.
Mrs Green poured the tea as slices of cake were passed around. Simon came in with the other five under-gardeners. The men moved up the bench to make room. That made twenty-four staff in total around the table. Simon smiled at her. She sat between Annie and Mrs Moore. Mrs Moore nudged her and smiled. No one spoke until the first bites were taken, and all the time everyone watched Mr Harvey as he savoured his. Evie almost expected him to spit it out as the wine experts did. Simon was grinning at her. Could he read her mind? She hardly breathed as Mr Harvey patted his mouth with his serviette. ‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘How is your ginger cake, Lil?’
All the staff laughed, except Lil. Mrs Moore patted Evie’s leg. ‘Quick, eat up now. We have a dinner to prepare.’
Chapter Four
ON MONDAY MORNING, 5th April, Jack slung his bait bag over his shoulder, grasped his pick and shovel and walked out of the backyard into the alley along with his da. It was the eight-to-eight shift and the spring morning was more like winter. There had been heavy snow from December to the middle of March and they’d had to dig their way through to the pit, and the cold was with them yet except for the odd good day. The east wind came across from the Russian steppes and it ruddy well felt like it, aye that it did.
He could feel not just the weight of his tools but the tension. The Gala had been a celebration, but would the men turn on his da now that they were streaming to the pit on a cold Monday morning?
As they passed down the back alley, pitman after pitman grumbled their way out with their tools and bait bags and joined them for the walk to Auld Maud, merely tipping their caps, just as always. Jack’s tension eased, but looking at his da who walked at his side he could see that he had other concerns. ‘I’ve got to check the pumps. They’re old and struggling, lad.’
‘Is that yourself you’re talking about, you old bugger you?’ called George who’d just joined them, dragging his feet as always. He was such a devil to walk behind in the pit, kicking up the dust as he did. His da laughed and the tension ebbed further in Jack.
Jack’s marra, Martin, came out of his uncle’s backyard, 6 Trelawney Way, letting the gate slam shut behind him, and slapping Jack on the shoulder before bowing low to Jack’s da. His own had died of black lung the year before. ‘Well Bob, our deputy, our God, you take care of us and the pumps, old man, and we’ll take right good care of you.’
Bob Forbes laughed. ‘Always, Martin. Always.’
Jack grinned. So far, so good, and only now did he take notice of the throbbing of his nose which his mother had pulled to straighten last night, but which still leaked blood. His eyes had almost closed up but he could see well enough, and in the pit it was almost by feel anyway. They were joined by Ben, his da’s old marra, who’d paired up with his younger brother Sam. ‘Been painting any more pretty pictures, our Ben?’ Bob Forbes asked. Ben’s slap on Bob’s back was the same as ever, and so was the walk to the pit during which they heard about the problems of sketching when the wind was howling across the beach. They all knew about that wind because they went so often for sea coal, but they let him ramble on as no one felt much like talking on the way to Auld Maud on a Monday, except Ben. His words lulled them with their familiarity.
Jack, Alec Preston and Bob had done well at the
beach yesterday, and Timmie had stacked the cart, wanting instead to be with his father at the surf’s edge, but someone had to manage the loading. They had sold the lot to the wholesaler who turned up most Sundays with several carts. It was better than lugging it home and selling it on from there.
‘Alec just had time to stable Old Saul before he went straight off on the backshift. Where were you, man?’ Jack asked Martin.
‘It was me da’s birthday so Mam wanted to put some flowers on the grave.’ They all fell silent, even Ben, as they toiled up to the colliery, the wind moaning through the winding gear. At the shaft head they waited, as ten by ten they prepared to enter the cages. Soon it was their turn to take a lamp from the cabin, and a token from the board to be returned after the shift, indicating they were up safely. Then it was time for the cage. After the banksman had rapped three times, they squeezed in.
Jammed among nine others like sardines in the cage, Jack always felt his chest constrict. At two raps they were almost ready to fall through the air, for that was what it was, just a falling. He swallowed.
One day he might not mind. One day his breath might not catch in his throat, but he wouldn’t place a bet on it. Martin was humming next to him. He always did. At first it had set Jack’s teeth on edge but now he’d miss it. Everyone coped in their own way. He waited for the last single rap. It came. He braced, and down they went, rattling and heaving. Ben eased his bait, knocking against Jack. ‘Sorry, lad,’ he said, but his words were almost drowned by the creaking and clashing.
Soon they’d be at the bottom, safe for that moment. With a jolt they were there, in the dust and the heat. It was his world. It was what he knew. He could read Auld Maud, the creaking of the pine uprights, and the coal, the roof, the movement of the air, he could almost taste her moods. He could smell the sleck. They all could. They were a band of brothers.
They waited for the lower banksman to come and release the barrier. The lamp hung from Jack’s hand. A few of the others talked, some cleared the coal from their throats. Some were silent. Did they run through talisman thoughts as he did when they hit rock bottom? He earned good money, he had a marra he couldn’t leave, he had other marras in his group that he couldn’t desert for if he did how could he ever sleep easy again, knowing that they were down here, beneath the waves, beneath the fields? Each descent he thought these thoughts, and so far they had kept him safe.
Eric, the lower banksman, unlatched the barrier. Martin nudged Jack. ‘Have you heard that the whelp Auberon Brampton is back? Soiled his copybook at university good and proper; failed his exams, too much boozing and gambling. Come on, Eric, we can’t earn until we get there. Get the barrier back, for Christ’s sake.’
Eric grunted and then whistled as he always did, and didn’t alter his pace one iota. The men were shifting their weight from foot to foot. ‘Eric, man, get a bloody move on.’ It was Sam this time.
The barrier went back.
‘About ruddy time,’ Ben muttered, elbowing past Eric. They started their trudge to the coalface, but as they did Jack heard Eric call out, ‘All right for some, going over to Deputy. There’s a word for that.’ Jack stopped. His da called him on. ‘Leave it.’
Ben walked into him, pushing him forward. ‘Howay with you lad, leave it to Sam.’
Jack heard Sam, one of the last from the cage, say, ‘Sorry about that, Eric, did I kick you? Must have been something I heard. It would do you more good to keep your gob shut and your mind open.’
Jack snatched a look at Martin, who muttered, ‘Well, who’s Eric to pass judgement, daft bugger. We need a deputy on our side, that’s what we think, so forget anyone else.’ He lifted his head and shouted, ‘You hear that, Eric?’
Yes, they were all in this together, and Jack smiled, really smiled for the first time since he’d opened his eyes this morning. They all pressed themselves against the sides as the full coal wagons passed, driven back to the cages by the putter boys who called out to their Galloway ponies to hoof it. It was the end of one shift, the start of another. Soon Timmie would be with the Galloways, but first he’d be a trapper on the doors, controlling the flow of air, and now Jack’s smile faded. Trappers could fall asleep in the darkness which was lit only by the weak pool of light thrown by their lamps. If he slept he’d likely be crushed as a runaway wagon or a putter’s cart tore into the closed gate. Jack had to talk to Timmie again, make him aware he had to get the gates opened in time.
Their lamps cast light only over the immediate area. Rats scurried, dust rose, the roof sighed, men shouted to one another above the clatter of the wagons, the neighing of the ponies, the noise which never stopped. Jack nodded to his father as they approached Fred Scrivens’ old desk in his kist, or work station, a mile and half from the face. ‘Howay with you then, Da.’
His father was carrying an axe and saw to cut new props or salvage others. It was the most dangerous job in the mine, and it was this that had taken off Fred’s legs when he’d clawed out a prop for reuse and the roof had crashed in. He’d been lugged in a tub back to a wagon courtesy of a putter, a bairn who had vomited all the way. Jack grimaced; the sooner the lad got used to the bloody battlefield down here the better.
Fred was taking a long time to die in the infirmary, but while he lived his family had a house so he’d cling on no matter the pain. ‘Has Scrivens’ missus moved in with relatives yet?’ Jack called to no one in particular. Sam replied above the shuffling, ‘Last I heard her brother over Gosforn way was taking her in, and the bairns.’
Fred Scrivens would die now.
His da had not diverted to the kist but was still trudging. ‘Have you lost your sense of direction, Bob?’ Ben called from the back as they continued past the turn-off.
‘No, I’m coming with you, Ben. From now on no one goes to their placement without me checking it out. How can I write a report if I haven’t seen it?’ He nodded back to his kist where he would produce his reports in between checking the props, checking for gas and airflow, keeping an eye on the water and pumps, checking that the trappers were awake as they sat in the dark opening and shutting the doors quickly, so as not to interrupt the airflow more than necessary.
Jack gripped his da’s arm. ‘Just make sure you check the roof if you’re drawing out roof props. Don’t die for the bugger’s cutbacks. There should be no need to take out the real old ones, he knows that. It’s never safe. The props were put there for a reason, course they bloody were.’ He ended on a cough. Bloody dust. ‘Don’t kick up, Mart, for God’s sake, man.’
‘Hush your noise, Jacko,’ Martin grunted.
‘Don’t take on about props, lad. It just “is”, isn’t it,’ his da said. The lamps cast deep shadows on sepia faces.
On they trudged, another mile to go out under the sea. His da would make a good deputy, though it still stuck in his throat along with the bloody dust. Mart must have read his mind. ‘So, Bob, have you joined the Brampton Lodge yet?’
He listened as his father grunted into the silence that fell amongst the men, ‘I’ll have to, but why not? I’ll hear what’s going on and what plans are being cooked by management.’
The others nodded and continued their talk of pigeons or quoits, whippets or painting while he and Martin discussed the negotiations for the eight-hour shifts that were due to start in January 1910.
Jack murmured, ‘You just wait, Brampton’ll cut the piece rate on top of cutting the hours. He’s just waiting for any change that lets him slip it in. I don’t know why they do all this squealing about the Liberals and their taxes, because they just pass their shortfall down to us. It’d be a different bloody tale if the taxes were raising money for them instead of pensions and medicine for us. That’s if they get this National Insurance Act passed, it’ll likely be hoyed out instead. Or should I say “thrown” in a posh voice?’
‘Let’s worry about one thing at a time, man. It’s the shifts that come first right now,’ Martin grumbled. ‘The government means to help the workers, of course they do w
ith the hours cut, but we need the twelve hours’ money. Grand your da’s on the inside. We’ll maybe hear something useful to take to Jeb.’
Jack nodded. ‘And then Jeb can feed it to the union agents. They’re the ones doing the negotiating.’
‘Aye, but they’ll come back to us before they agree, won’t they, man?’
Jack shrugged. ‘God knows. If they don’t, will we strike on a matter of principle? If we did, would we win? Would we hell.’
They paused as Bob led Thomas and George to their placement and hunkered down, waiting. Jack set his lamp down and touched his nose. The dust was on his swollen eyes, but not in them.
Martin muttered, ‘You don’t reckon Bastard Brampton’ll take over the allocation of placements?’ He leaned back on the wall of coal. He sat, rather than hunkered, as a prop had crashed on to his leg a couple of years ago, leaving it stiff, and he needed to ease it when he could. Bob returned and they groaned their way upright and trudged on, Jack taking his place alongside Martin, gripping his arm, his marra’s words still resonating. It was something he’d never thought of. ‘Take over the cavil? No owner ever has and none ever would. It’s democracy in action, that allocation process is, bonny lad. We draw for our work stations and no bloody great lump is going to change that. You’d really be talking strike then.’
Jack stared ahead. The cavil was mining tradition, it was set in stone. Every quarter they all met in the Reading Room and held the cavil – each marra pair drawing lots for their work placements in the mine, with not an owner in sight. Just them, and Lady Luck. If you lucked out on a good seam on that cavil, then you’d maybe pick up on a better one next go-round. He said, ‘It’s sacrosanct.’
Martin spat into the dark as a huge rat was caught fleetingly in his lamplight, scampering past. ‘Got one of the beggars.’ Behind him some of the others who hadn’t yet peeled off to their placements laughed. Jack nudged him, calling over his shoulder at the others, ‘He’ll be notching his hits on his belt soon, daft beggar.’
Easterleigh Hall Page 5
