Evie headed for her mother, who was wearing a coat, and had slung a shawl around her head. Evie recognised the coat as Miss Manton’s mother’s that had hung on a hook in the vicarage hall for years. Pure wool it was, lots of warmth in it. By, that Miss Manton was a grand woman. The gulls were screaming, the surf was pounding and all around were the calls of the men and the clatter of coal as it was poured from sacks into carts, and shovelled to one end.
She waved, running now, back up the beach, her arms outstretched, to her mam. It was so good to be here, to have Mam’s arms around her, to say into her neck as her mam kissed and kissed her, ‘I baked extra scones and fancies, Mam. Mrs Moore said why not but don’t shout about it. She’s so nice, she really is.’
Her mother laughed. ‘Draw breath, pet.’ She patted and then released her daughter. ‘Say hello to Miss Manton.’
Evie turned, not sure whether to shake her hand. What would be correct, with a former employer? Miss Manton took control, stepping forward and kissing her cheek. She smelt of lavender water, whereas her mother smelt of soda crystals and toil. ‘Evie, you look so well, a bit tired but that’s to be expected I suppose, and of course Mrs Moore is a nice woman. Do you think I would have sent you to an ogre? But how is she?’
The wind was whipping much harder and the sand stung their faces. It was tearing the words from their mouths and over everything was the crash and roar of the surf.
Evie hesitated. Miss Manton said, ‘The truth now.’
Evie shouted above the wind. ‘She’s drinking, and her poor joints are swollen, but she’s doing her job and she’s just lovely, and I’m learning such a lot and Millie’s standing in for me this afternoon, and I stand in for her . . .’
Miss Manton laughed. ‘Slow down.’ But then she waved to someone behind Evie, who turned. It was Jack, lovely lovely Jack. She flew into his arms, and he lifted her up and spun her round. ‘You look grand, bonny lass, just grand. But we’ve missed you. Haven’t we, Timmie?’ He put her down and she saw Timmie was running up behind him. He lifted and spun her round too. Surely he’d grown? But it had only been a couple of weeks, so he couldn’t have.
‘Evie, I’m down the pit now. I’m a trapper,’ he said, putting her down, giving her time to find a smile, to find words that wouldn’t be a shout of rage. ‘That’s grand, bonny lad, just grand.’
She looked at Jack, who shrugged and mouthed, ‘His decision.’ Timmie was grinning, and she saw him properly for the first time for months and months. Of course he was down the pit, he was not a bairn, he was thirteen, tall and solid and strong, like Jack. He had chocolate eyes like Jack, and shoulders like Jack, and now there’d be scars, blue-black scars. Jack nodded, knowing her thoughts, knowing the sadness.
She took Timmie’s hands in hers. ‘I was ignoring the fact that you are old enough and bad enough to be a pitman.’ Everyone laughed, she grinned, then looked at her mam. ‘I just didn’t want to see it. He’s our baby, isn’t he, Mam, and he’s to be careful, very careful.’
Her mother was standing close now, and shouted as the wind banked up, ‘He’s no fool, are you, lad? You’ll listen to your da and your brother or you’ll feel my hand at the back of your head.’ She laughed and it reached her eyes, because she was a pitman’s mother and a pitman’s wife and you had to believe in their safety until you were shown otherwise, or you were no good to man or beast.
Her da was calling to them and beckoning. Jack pulled her arm. ‘Come on, get your apron on and give us a hand. The wholesalers are all here so we’ll do well. What about you, Miss Manton? Are you coming to heave some coal?’ He was laughing, her lovely strong big brother was laughing, and Timmie too. Carbon copies they were. They all started to head to the cart except for Miss Manton, who held up her hand and shouted against the noise. ‘I’ll go and support Edward. He feels that if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad then Muhammad must go to the mountain.’
Jack shouted back, ‘Aye, well start by telling him he’s flogging a dead horse, that most of them are chapel, if they’re anything.’
Miss Manton was pulling a shawl tightly around her coat as she set off towards her brother, who was about two hundred yards along the beach towards Lea End. ‘It’s the anything he’s after,’ she smiled.
Jack watched her go, snatching a look at the parson, and then saying quietly, ‘God damn it.’ Evie caught the concern and saw its cause. Jack raised his voice and sprinted after Miss Manton. ‘Look, tell him to turn back this way. He doesn’t want to go any further down that end. The Lea End lot are rough, they’re after the coal, not fire and brimstone, and they’ll be drinking themselves daft. They won’t take kindly. Let me go, I’m quicker.’
Miss Manton held him back, her gloved hand on his arm. ‘You’re kind, but I’ll do it. Get that coal on board your cart, the Prestons are hard at it, and they’ll be letting you know that any minute now.’ She plodded on.
Evie and her family hurried down to the cart where Simon and his father Alec were shovelling and stacking. Jack punched Simon on the arm. ‘Here to do some real work for a change then, Si?’
‘Need to help those less able to help themselves, bonny lad,’ Simon said with a grin, taking another sack from his father and shovelling hard. Evie took one from her da who was up on the cart. He gave her thick gloves too. ‘You need to keep your hands clean, lass, and should wear them anyway now you’re an adult.’ Her father jumped down from the cart.
She ignored him and snapped at Jack, dragging on the gloves, ‘Pitmen aren’t the only workers, you claggy waster. Simon’s at it for hours, he was hedging and ditching all week.’ She strode off across the beach, harvesting coal as Jack’s laugh followed her, and his words. ‘Si, you’ve a defender there.’
She looked over her shoulder at Simon, who was grinning again. ‘Never hurts to have a gang,’ he said. He looked at her and nodded. She returned to her work. Aye, they were in a gang together. All was well, very well.
They worked for an hour before Mam called a halt. She’d fetched the fancies and scones from Evie’s rear-wheel box, and her own bread and jam butties and beer, and they all huddled in the lee of the cart. Alec looked tired. He’d drawn an abnormal placement in the latest cavil, just about the worst seam in the pit, the hardest and the least productive. He shrugged when Simon commiserated. ‘Well, next time we draw lots my luck’ll change. It could be Jack’s turn.’ He nodded towards Jack, who laughed. ‘Ah, we’ll see, man. Lady Luck’ll decide.’
Alec’s marra Steve was picking up coal nearer the wholesalers with his family and waved, calling, ‘Any leavings from them cakes, send ’em across.’ Simon looked at Evie, who nodded. Her mam packed a few fancies into some greaseproof paper. Simon took it, the wind whipping his hair. He turned to go, then swung back. ‘Grand cakes these are, Evie. But Da, or Bob, isn’t there a better way than the cavil?’
Timmie answered, ‘Only someone who’s not a pitman would ask that. It’s democracy in action, lad, and don’t you forget it.’ He was stuffing a third jam butty in his mouth and spat crumbs as he said, ‘And don’t get the old ’uns on to the pit today, Si, or you’ll have ’em both tub-thumping and it’s too cold.’
Simon laughed, then sprinted across to Steve’s family while Jack and Bob cuffed Timmie gently. Mam shook her head at Evie. ‘Nothing changes, bonny lass.’
She was sitting on an upturned orange box, with her feet set firmly on the sand, and Evie knew that she would never forget this scene. How she had missed them all, how thankful she was that nothing had changed – all the men were here, and in one piece. She’d have to talk to Timmie about Simon not being a pitman, but not now.
‘How’re we going with the savings, Jack?’ she asked quietly as he came to stand by her, viewing the sky, measuring how much daylight remained. They would travel back as late as they needed, but it grew hard to gather the coal beyond a certain time.
‘Not there yet, pet,’ her brother said. ‘It’d be canny to get another big fight, the smaller ones are all right a
nd give us a little and it’s good Da’s on a better wage, not piecework, so that’s putting more into the pot. But I reckon there’ll be a strike when the eight hours comes in.’ He took a gulp of his beer before setting it down in the sand. Around them some were eating, drinking, others were still working. ‘But you see, lass, if we go out, we’ll need the house right enough because I’ll be earmarked even more. Jeb’s all right because he lives outside the village, on his own land.’ Evie could see from his knuckles and black eye that he’d fought again.
Her mother was handing out the remaining scones. Evie refused. She could always have them, her family couldn’t. Simon and his father were talking quietly as they sipped beer. Jack ate his scone in one mouthful and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Timmie was drinking water, as Da wouldn’t allow him beer, and he grimaced as he slurped. ‘It’s not fair, I do a man’s job, them trapdoors are heavy, and we have to be sharp and quick so’s not to disrupt the airflow, but still let the wagons through,’ he muttered to Jack and Evie.
Jack laughed. ‘You deserve a slurp after such a long grumble. Here, have some of mine, but take it steady.’ He handed the tin mug to his brother. Evie smiled as Timmie took a gulp, coughed, choked. Evie thumped him on the back, turning to laugh at her mam who was calling, ‘That’ll teach you, lad.’ But as she did so she saw Miss Manton about a hundred yards away, running towards them, waving, her hat falling from her head. It was bowled along the beach by the wind but Miss Manton didn’t stop, she just kept waving, and calling. But what? She was too far away, the wind too strong, the gulls too noisy and the surf was raging and thudding into the beach far more violently than earlier.
Behind her, a good seventy yards or so, there was something . . . What was it? Men dragging something . . . No, perhaps not something, was it someone, towards the sea? She looked from that to Miss Manton, who was nearer now but still indistinct. Where was the parson? He’d been further up that end, hadn’t he?
Miss Manton was still calling. And where was the damned parson? Evie remembered Mrs Moore telling her she was surprised he even managed to cross the street on his own. Evie gripped Jack’s arm, pointing, words not coming because she didn’t know what it was she needed to say. Timmie and Jack turned. Jack looked from the running woman to the scene behind her, far behind her.
He shook off Evie’s hand, shouting, ‘Stay here, you too, Timmie. Da, come now, it’s the parson. We’re needed, so call your marras. Ben’s away by the surf, and what about Sam?’ He glanced around. ‘Alec, get Steve and the marras, looks like the parson’s gone where he shouldn’t, bloody fool, and why the hell he doesn’t listen . . .’ He was already running, with Timmie close behind, and Evie. ‘Stay here, I said,’ he threw over his shoulder.
Timmie and Evie exchanged a look and didn’t break stride.
Jack dug his toes into the sand, forcing himself ever faster. Bloody fool, bloody churchy fool, he chanted in his head. Didn’t I say don’t go down there? He was pumping his arms, searching for Martin. He saw him at his cart, nearer to the dunes. He called, beckoning him to follow. ‘Get the others, parson’s in for a ducking,’ he shouted. Behind he could hear the breath of pitmen who were not used to running and didn’t have the chests for it but they’d keep up with him, because that’s what they did.
He passed Miss Manton who was crying, bowed over, her hands on her knees, struggling for breath, hair streaming from her bun. He didn’t stop as she reached for him, but tore himself free. Behind he heard Evie call, ‘Go to my mam.’ Her voice was ragged, her breath harsh. He hadn’t time to tell his sister yet again to go back, and what good would it do? He half smiled. They were closing in on the group, who were shouting and singing as they dragged Parson Manton nearer and nearer to the surf. If they threw the man in there, God help him. Jack laughed harshly at those words. Well, the parson was the right person to ask for that sort of help. The rest of them were a lost cause.
He snatched a look behind. The marra groups were with him, and others had stopped their work and were joining them, leaving the coal to the women. And there, behind Evie, was Simon. Well, he wouldn’t be in the first wave, he’d see to that. He wasn’t going to jeopardise anyone Evie loved, and no way could the lad go to work with a face like a bruiser. It was a shame, he was a canny fighter.
The sea-coalers from Lea End had spotted them and were fanning out, creating a jeering barrier between the parson and the oncoming Easton and Hawton pitmen. Jack knew they’d be drunk, they wouldn’t be thinking clearly, they’d be easy. He headed down to the surf to flank them and get at Manton. His da would know to spearhead the charge on the right flank. He gestured to his own marra group. ‘To the left, the left, we need to break a way through near the surf, because he won’t survive the waves, they’re bloody giants.’ He heard them behind him, heard Simon call to Evie, ‘Stay back, let us do this. You too, Timmie.’
Jack swung round. ‘Not you, Si, stay with Evie and Timmie, keep them back.’ He nearly tripped, staggered, felt his knee twist, but righted himself. His group were with him, his father was pitching into the barrier higher up, arms swinging, the others on his heels roaring head down into the melee.
Jack used his fists as they tore into the lower section and had the parson in his sights. Martin closed up on his right, some others to his left. The Lea End mob were lifting Manton’s legs now. They were just a yard or two from the surf. They dropped a leg and fumbled before grabbing it up again. He could hear their laughter, their shouts. Manton seemed lifeless, he wasn’t struggling at all. Surely the bugger wasn’t turning the other cheek? God in heaven, there was a time and place, the daft beggar.
Jack punched and kicked, grunting as a damn great stick broke across his shoulders. He felt more blows land as he forced his way through with Martin at his side, while Joe and Andy and the others exchanged blows of their own. The parson was being swung backward and forward, and again, and then once more as the bastards stood knee-deep in the surf, the waves breaking and crashing waist-high. As Jack reached them they threw the parson high into the air and into the waves. ‘Let your preaching help you now, you daft bugger, and stay away from us,’ one of the men called, trying to throw Edward Manton’s hat in after him, but the wind took it.
Jack barged through the group, using his shoulder and his fists, which were already bruised and swollen from last night’s fight. How long could he go on doing this? He was through now and skirting the surf, leaving Martin and the others to beat the group back. He tore his jacket off, searching the waves. He grappled with the laces of his boots. Where was the daft bugger? Where?
Breathe deep, calm down, he insisted, trying to ease the knots, knowing that Martin would protect his back. Evie rushed through the surf. ‘Don’t, Jack. It’s not the beck. Don’t.’
He must. What else could he do? He yelled at Simon, who was wading into the fight, ‘I said look after her, damn you, and where the hell’s Timmie?’
His boots were off and he forced his way through the breaking waves, which snatched at him, slowing him. The cold took what was left of his breath and he caught his foot on some coal, and lurched forward. He tasted the salt, sinking beneath the oncoming waves, swallowing water, feeling the coal cutting into his feet as he struggled up, only to see a bigger wave roaring in, bowling him over again. He struggled to the surface, standing firm. The water was up to his waist.
He dived through the next wave, and the next, searching, out of his depth now because it was here that the beach shelved, making it a poor place for sea coal. The light was already fading and the current was taking him back to shore, and the cold was seizing up his limbs, so what was it doing to a namby-pamby like Manton? He snatched a look around. Nothing. He beat his way back out to sea, swimming hard, throwing himself upwards again and again, searching before breaking through the next wave.
He could see the fighting on the beach as the Lea End men were forced back towards the dunes, he could see Evie with Si at the edge of the surf holding back Miss Manton who was st
ruggling and hitting out at a passing Lea End man. By, the Manton lass had courage. But where was Timmie? He flicked his hair out of his eyes, treading water. Where was the bloody parson? A wave hit him and dragged him down, sucking him to the depths, tumbling him in the water. He hadn’t been ready and had no breath. On it went, tumbling him over and over, his lungs bursting, and then he felt a tug. Something changed, slowly he was being hauled out of the rip, but he still mustn’t breathe or he would die, but he must take in breath because his chest was on fire.
The tugging went on, he kicked, helping, he was breaking through the surface coughing, choking and Timmie was grinning at him, holding him up by the armpits. ‘You know I swim better than you ever did,’ he shouted. ‘You go left, I’ll go right. Evie, Si, and Miss Manton are looking out for the parson. Keep an eye on them.’
As he stroked away Jack searched the sea yet again, checking with the shore, swimming off to the right, lifting and falling and diving through the waves, and then he saw something black further out. He swam towards it, ducking beneath a wave again. He saw an arm, lifting, then it fell, and yet another surge dragged at him. He kicked hard, swam out of it, stroking the moment he broke the surface.
He yelled after Timmie, who glanced back. Jack pointed, then stroked as though his life depended on it, but it wasn’t his life, it was the daft beggar’s who hadn’t listened. How had he ever heard ‘the call’? He thought this again and again, maniacally laughing, then stopped. No. No. By, it was so cold.
Jack’s arms were heavy, his legs too. His body was beyond numb. He forced himself on, rising to check on the position of Manton. There was no outstretched arm, but he could still see something black, lolling like a clump of seaweed. Timmie was alongside.
Easterleigh Hall Page 11
