‘It’s him,’ he said, crawling stroke for stroke with Jack, both spitting with every turn of their heads. The sea seemed to be lifting and falling as though in the grip of a cauldron and the wind was howling. If they didn’t get out soon they never would.
They were closing, they were there, but Manton was face down. Timmie dived and turned him, Jack grabbed the parson beneath the arms and dragged him. Together they struggled shorewards with Timmie sidestroking beside him, hauling for all he was worth. The waves continued to surge and boil, and now the rain came, stinging their faces. Timmie coughed but they were making headway because the tide was turning and the waves were with them, at last, but it was too late. He had to let go, had to sink, had to give up, he must, but then the waves were breaking on them and he felt sand beneath his feet, and they were in the shallows as Timmie took over.
Exhausted, Jack felt his body give up. He rolled on to his front and crawled towards safety, but he couldn’t think because of the noise and the deadness of his body. Then Simon and Evie were in the sea beside him, hauling him towards safety, but he couldn’t stand, damn it. He had no strength, no feeling, and was so cold he thought he’d never be warm again.
Evie was saying, ‘Come on, Jack. Help us, get those legs moving, bonny lad.’ He tried, stumbled and stood, but only for a moment, for he had no bones, only jelly, only numbness. He fell to his knees, and the surf still crashed over and around him, and over his sister and the man she loved. They dragged him out of the water as Timmie and Martin dragged Manton.
His mam was there and threw her shawl over him as he lay scarcely able to breathe, and what air he sucked in barely reached his lungs, though he could hear it rasping. In and out. In and out.
Evie was rubbing him, his mother too, but all the time he searched for Timmie and Manton, and saw them higher up on the beach with Miss Manton and two pit wives rubbing and drying them both. His father and the Easton men were returning, leaving the Lea End gang fleeing. Da was helping Timmie and Martin move Manton on to his belly, while Si’s da, Alec, took over from the women. Evie was crying, his mam was crying and stroking his hair. Miss Manton was crying. It was bloody bedlam.
He watched his da thumping Manton on the back. Was that what you did when someone had drowned? Was he dead? Was there any hope? Simon was running towards Manton, taking over from Da, whose nose was bleeding, and Alec’s too. By, that must have been some fight. He knew his own head, nose and fists would be sore if he could feel them. Over by the dunes the Lea End group were turning around their carts and leaving. They should be reported, but you didn’t report one of your own, for they were pitmen from Sidon Pit.
Evie and his mam were helping him to his feet and urging him away from the surf and the spray. ‘Come on, Jack, let’s get you safe, the tide’s coming in.’ He was shivering so much that he couldn’t speak and his legs didn’t seem to belong to him.
It was then that his da turned and held up his arm, shouting. ‘We’ve got him back, the daft bugger. We’ve got him back.’
Miss Manton was on her knees, not praying but cradling her brother. Jack grinned inside but his face wouldn’t move. Daft bugger, oh yes, he was. Timmie came across, hauling him up. ‘Thanks, Timmie,’ Jack whispered. ‘You saved me.’ He was slurring his words. ‘You led me,’ Timmie said and then his legs sagged and they both fell back on to the beach.
The marras carried all three men to the dunes near their carts where there was some degree of shelter, and then they carted the coal to the wholesalers. Evie and the other women stripped Jack of his shirt, forcing his arms into his father’s old spare shirt, which he always brought in case of accident. Then they helped him into his jacket while his da removed Jack’s trousers, and changed them for his own. Alec did the same for Timmie. They wore the wet ones. Jack was barely conscious, but Manton was even less so. Alec had found several blankets and was wrapping them around the parson, whom he had stripped. ‘We must get the bugger to the infirmary,’ Jack croaked.
Miss Manton came across then, bending over him. ‘How can I thank you, Mr Forbes?’
‘Keep your brother warm,’ Jack murmured as his da arrived, looming over him.
Jack grinned. ‘I’ve been given your old shirt, man, so I’m not good enough for your better ’un, I suppose.’
His da grinned too, and gripped his shoulder. ‘You got that right, lad. I’m right proud of you both.’
Jack pulled his father close. ‘Let the bairn have a beer, for God’s sake. He’s a man now.’
Evie and Simon pedalled back, following the cart and the trap to the infirmary. They left Mr Manton there, but Jack wouldn’t stay in after he’d been examined. ‘I need to work,’ he said to Miss Manton. Timmie nodded. ‘I need to work too.’ He smelt of beer. Jack grinned at his father. They’d be in the pit again tomorrow; sickness was a luxury they couldn’t afford, especially with trouble looming. The grin faded. He hadn’t done enough. They didn’t have the house.
Night was falling and Evie and Simon set off for Easterleigh Hall, pedalling slower with legs that ached. Simon barely spoke, but Evie was tired too, and wet, and as cold as he was. She would take a hot brick up to bed, wrapped in sacking. In fact, she’d take two, maybe even three. Simon checked his watch in the light from the moon. ‘We’ll be in time,’ he said.
Evie nodded. ‘Thanks for your help, lad. Make sure you take hot bricks to bed.’
He said nothing for a while. Then, in a distant voice, he murmured, ‘You see what I mean. I was sent to stay with you and Timmie when I could have helped beat back the Lea End lot.’
Evie shook her head, a surge of irritation washing away her pride in her brothers. ‘It saved you turning up for work with a face looking as though it had been through a mincer. Jack will have worked out that you need to keep your job. We’re not outsiders, we’re just . . . well, we made a different choice, Simon.’
‘You mean my father made a choice. He wanted me out of the pit.’
She pedalled hard to keep up with him as they rode up the hill. ‘We each had a part to play. We saved a life.’ He was being a daft beggar. He was cold and wet and he’d pick up soon.
She laughed suddenly. ‘Don’t forget, we’re a gang, and we stayed together, worked together. We got Jack back.’ She freewheeled down the hill and in a moment he overtook her, laughing at last. ‘Heaviest gets to the bottom first.’
She braked steadily. ‘Then I’m way behind you.’ His laugh rang loud and clear. Before they’d left the infirmary Miss Manton had said, ‘Evie, I think you might have forgotten the Suffragette meetings. Why don’t I pick you up at the crossroads near Easterleigh Hall on your afternoon off next Wednesday? In fact, I’ll be there every Wednesday and Sunday until you come. I owe your family everything, and you owe yourself – well, something of the utmost importance.’
Chapter Eight
EVIE WOKE DURING that same Sunday night with a searing sore throat, aching limbs and thumping headache, but she and Millie were up at five thirty as normal. She’d only been here a couple of weeks but already the pattern of her days was set firm, as though there’d never been anything else. She eased her aching body down the back stairs into the kitchen, starting the furnace, then boiling the kettle while Millie leaded the grate and the scullery maids attacked the copper pans. It was becoming a daily occurrence that they were not completely finished the night before, but Mrs Moore had made no comment beyond, ‘There are only so many hours in a day.’
Tea was delivered to the upper servants, and Mrs Moore’s gin bottle was only half empty. A good sign? Hopefully. Back in the kitchen, Evie left the servants’ porridge to Millie and set the table with all that was needed for breakfast preparation, though it was too early to start to sauté the kidneys. She checked Mrs Moore’s lunch menu for today. Parsnip soup removed by boiled turbot and lobster sauce, removed by forequarter of lamb, removed by apricot tartlets and rhubarb tart. She set the stockpot brewing, dragged on her shawl and told Millie she was going to the gardeners’ store
to collect the parsnips. Millie smiled as she stirred the porridge. ‘Say hello to Simon for me.’
Evie croaked, ‘I don’t know what you mean. Remember, no friendships like that are allowed.’ Millie looked scared. ‘I’m sorry, right silly I am.’
Evie went to her. ‘You’re not silly, pet. It’s the rule that’s daft. Just be careful what you say.’ She patted her shoulder and called through to the scullery, ‘Annie and Sarah, there’s a note here from Mrs Moore: don’t forget to wash that floor.’
Then she was gone, out across the yard feeling as though knives were cutting into her throat, drawing her shawl across her head to protect it from the cold morning breeze, her legs feeling like lead, with each step jolting her head. She turned on to the path. She’d find some dried bergamot in the vegetable store at the back, where a small furnace kept the air dry. She would infuse the herb with honey, and it might help her throat. She couldn’t see Simon anywhere. Once she arrived it was Bernie who was sorting the root vegetables, and her heart sank. He grinned. ‘Parsnips today, Evie. Your Mrs Moore gave me the list yesterday. I’ll bring ’em up as usual so no need for you to come down.’
She stood in the doorway, clutching her shawl at her throat. ‘I know.’ Her voice was barely more than a whisper by now. ‘Just thought I’d get some air and some bergamot.’ Bernie cut some down for her. ‘What’s going on round here? Simon’s voice has gone to the wall and I reckon he’s got a fever. Could it be anything to do with a certain afternoon off?’ he asked.
She decided on a half-truth. ‘I was sea-coaling and Simon was there helping Alec, his da. It rained.’ Her voice ended on a squeak. She took the bergamot and almost crawled back up the path, and was turning into the yard when Roger stepped from the garage. She increased her pace, conscious of his smile as he pinched out his cigarette. He called, ‘Slow down, not a race is it?’
She croaked, ‘In a way. I need to start the breakfasts and you have duties too.’ She made to sidestep him but he stepped with her. She stepped to the right, and he too. ‘Mrs Moore is up and sorting out the breakfasts, let’s walk in together, why not?’ His smile was crooked, his grey eyes as cold as the sky, his hair short and straight and it looked as though it was slicked down with something. His black suit and tie were pristine and his shirt so white it could have been called blindingly so, if one wanted to impress him. She didn’t. He repeated, ‘Why not, we can get to know one another rather better.’
Why not? Because your reputation goes before you, man, she wanted to shout, but he was an upper servant and she knew better than to say what she thought. She smiled, but looked towards the kitchen. He stepped closer. She put up her hand, firmly, and retreated. His jaw set. She pointed at her throat and forced some words out. ‘You can hear I have a right bad throat. You don’t want to fall ill so soon after being set on as Mr Auberon’s valet.’
She knew the moment she said it that it was a mistake. His smile disappeared, his face flushed. She added, ‘It must be interesting to valet for someone who needs your experience, it’s important for Mr Auberon to learn from you.’ To her left she could see Len the chauffeur in the doorway, watching, and behind him, deep in the shadow of the garage, the Rolls-Royce. Len was moving closer for a better view. What was she, a music-hall act? Her headache was thumping.
Millie called then, from the doorway of the basement. ‘We need you, Evie, get a move on. Mrs Moore is . . . Well, she’s after hurrying you up.’
Thank you, thank you. ‘I have to go,’ she said, though her voice had almost gone completely. For a moment Roger watched her, as though he was assessing produce on a stall. He’d start to feel if she was ripe any minute now. Her head was spinning. He stood to one side and bowed. ‘On your way, Evie Anston. I’m sure we’ll have another chance to chat, when you are in full voice, and remember, I valet for both, while Lord Brampton is here.’
She felt that she scuttled away, and hated the surrender. She dragged herself into the kitchen with the bergamot. Mrs Moore stood with her hands on her hips, waiting. ‘You do not go out until I say you may. You do not leave Millie in charge of porridge and quite alone, so what have you to say, Evie Anston?’
Evie knew it wouldn’t be much, but she tried. There was no voice left. Instead she waved the bergamot. Mrs Moore looked from her to the herb. Millie said, ‘She’s right poorly, she is. It’s her throat. She was sea-coaling, with . . . With her family.’
Millie flushed. It was one of the longest speeches anyone had heard from her, and Evie thought she deserved a hug. Mrs Moore snatched at the bergamot. ‘Well, sit down here, on the stool, near the range. I’ll make bergamot tea with honey, and just a little something else. I’ll be back in a moment.’ She picked up a cup from the dresser and headed for her rooms. Evie reached across and patted Millie. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘I saw you with that valet,’ said Millie. ‘He looks right bonny. Bit like me da. I don’t know why everyone’s being so nasty about him.’ Evie had no voice to say that he was anything but nice, and no energy left to even try.
Mrs Moore returned with her cup and added leaves of bergamot and honey, and lastly the hot water. She drew out a stool, pressing Evie on to it, forcing her to sit while she sipped; she almost choked on the gin Mrs Moore had added. Mrs Moore shook her head in warning while bustling to the range. ‘I’ll finish the breakfast, you get some energy back. It’s a chill, it’ll pass. I’d like to send you back to bed but it’s warmer here. Rest when you can but, for land’s sake, we’re to have that Mr Auberon down here, and Lady Veronica, after their ride, for tea, so I’ll need you to make extra-special fancies.’
‘Down here?’ Evie mouthed, her head swimming even more. Next to her, Millie and Annie almost spilt the porridge they were pouring into the earthenware bowl.
Mrs Moore was whisking the scrambled eggs for upstairs, her swollen wrists slowing her. Evie drained her cup to the dregs, then took the whisk from her. ‘I’ll do it, you sort out the kippers,’ she mouthed. Mrs Moore patted her shoulder. ‘You’re a good lass, and Millie, get that porridge across the way.’ She added in a whisper, ‘The medicine I put in will help you sweat it out.’
The staff streamed down the central passageway chattering and nudging one another, with Lil almost last. Behind her came Roger. Lil was preening herself. Well, she was welcome to him. Just then Evie saw Mrs Green draw Lil away from the others, her face stern.
Millie and Annie lugged the huge earthenware bowl through to the hall, puffing and panting. The kippers were cooking, the bacon already done. The heat from the range was healing, the heat from within her was helping too, because her clothes were damp with sweat and her throat had eased. Mrs Moore looked across at her. ‘I told you Mr Auberon used to come with Wainey, and Lady Veronica too, and they’ve come on and off since then if they can escape from Lady Brampton’s beady eyes. I expect Lady Brampton will be resting after the exertions of the dinner party. Worked her fingers to the bone, I don’t think.’
Mrs Moore was wiping the table with a damp cloth, and they both laughed. ‘I reckon they need some home comforts. They get none up there. They’ll talk in French if they have something they don’t want me to understand. Bloody rude but then they’re from upstairs so know no better. You can go into the pantry to stocktake and brush up your language. It’ll be boring, mind.’
She swiped the crumbs on to the floor. ‘You sweep those up when you’ve got yourself in hand.’
Somehow Evie struggled through the chores, making and serving a mutton casserole from a mixture of the leavings from upstairs and mutton from Home Farm. She had little appetite. Roger sat on the male side of the table. He smiled at her. Millie nudged her. Evie ignored them both. Before the lunch was finished she left, and prepared the soup for upstairs, slicing the parsnips with shaking hands, feeling that the heat from her body could melt the butter that was in the pan. She tipped in the parsnips and sautéed them until almost tender. She added the stock and simmered the whole damn lot for half an hour, wanting to lie
on the floor and just sleep.
Millie and Sarah cleared the servants’ table while Evie sat on the stool, her head throbbing, forcing the soup through the sieve, and then the hair sieve, her arm aching. How was Simon? At least she was in the warm. Jack would be warm and exhausted as he hacked at the coal down in the pit. Timmie would be warm too, sitting at the trapdoor in the dark, waiting for the tubs and wagons, opening just at the right time, and shutting it straight after. He must stay awake. She shook herself to alertness too.
She added more stock and the soup was ready to serve, timed to perfection. Archie took it upstairs. Mrs Moore had prepared the forequarter earlier and it was roasting gently. They cooked the vegetables. She made the tarts and placed them in the second oven. The scullery maids kept up with the dishes and implements, washing and replacing them. Luncheon over, Evie baked cakes and scones while Mrs Moore rested in her room. When she returned she came with jams from Mrs Green’s preserve cupboard. ‘For the scones,’ she said. Gin was on her breath. Evie made a pot of tea; it would disguise the smell. She held out a cup to Mrs Moore and poured for all the kitchen staff. They sat around the table and Mrs Moore nodded and smiled at her. ‘You’re a good lass, Evie,’ she said. The others wondered why.
Millie brought a tablecloth when they were finished and set the table to Mrs Moore’s instructions. The sponge cakes, fancies, and scones were fulsome, the selection of jams plentiful, and Evie whipped cream in case Mr Auberon cared for some on his scones. The house servants had been warned to stay in the servants’ hall facing away from the kitchen, for no servant must watch, or cross the path of, the master. Evie felt rage filling her at the thought. It was bad enough that this was the rule upstairs, but downstairs was the servants’ domain. She shut down the thought and rose, standing on legs that seemed empty of life. Mrs Moore sent her to the big pantry for the stocktake, and the others to the ice room, or the preserve pantry as requested by Mrs Green, to scrub the shelves and floor.
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