Mr Harvey called for silence and thanked Lord and Lady Brampton for their generosity, and as he did so Evie felt the touch of Simon’s hand on hers. He was panting as he stood beside her, whispering, ‘We’re all late, we couldn’t do up our collars, and then the ties.’ She didn’t mind how late he was as long as he came. She squeezed his hand, wanting to wrench off her silly little organza gloves and feel skin on skin. ‘You look wonderful,’ he murmured.
She was wearing a deep green taffeta dress. She and all the other girls had pulled in their corsets just that little bit more, and though they could hardly breathe it was worth the pain. Simon was wearing a suit, with rounded stiff collar and dark blue tie. He looked different, but it was a good difference.
At last the formalities were over, but still the family stayed. Archie and James were in charge of the phonograph but with all the chatter the music couldn’t be heard, so no one danced. Simon and Evie circulated, careful not to seem glued together, but always within reach of one another. Millie stayed hot on their heels. Simon whispered, ‘She doesn’t seem any less fretful.’
Evie liked him leaning so close, and the feel of his breath on her cheek and neck. ‘I can’t make her out,’ she murmured as they sidestepped Mrs Green in close conversation with Mrs Moore. ‘She’s timid one minute and then spiteful the next, and totally idle. It might come of having no father, or having to live with relatives. I don’t know, I try to be patient but by, lad, I don’t do a very good job.’
His hand was running up and down her arm while they were hidden amongst the throng and she hoped he would talk of them, their future, their present. He said, ‘This music is hopeless, I’m going to ask Bernie and Thomas to come with me and collect our fiddles, we can do better.’ She felt disappointment so sharp that she couldn’t respond. He continued, ‘Then I can take time out to dance with you, because I haven’t done that yet, Evie Anston.’ Everything was all right again.
In his absence she stood with Lil, whose hair was piled on top of her head with a bone comb just off to one side, watching the stilted groups. They nudged one another as Lady Veronica struggled to make conversation with the head gardener, who was taciturn enough on his own territory and impossible in this situation.
They watched Mr Harvey discussing with his Lordship the possibility of replacing the phonograph with the fiddlers. Lord Brampton shrugged, his frown deeper still. His reply was curt. Mr Harvey bowed slightly as Lord Brampton moved away, and nodded to Mrs Green.
The boys were back and the two footmen drifted from the phonograph with relief written large on their faces as the fiddlers began, and soon the room was given over to dancing. The candles wafted in the breeze created by the Gay Gordons, and reels of all types, and a few waltzes, some of which Evie danced with Simon. She was in heaven, and never wanted the evening to end, loving his smile, his red hair which glinted in the light, his hands which gripped hers, and then clasped her to him for the waltzes. Their bodies were close then, perhaps too close, but she didn’t care.
At length Mr Harvey called a pause for the food, and Evie dragged herself from Simon and hurried off with the other kitchen staff and the footmen and under-footmen. By the time the food was placed upon the table an orderly queue had formed, and tables had been set up around the room. Mr Harvey declared that the musicians should be served first, at which Lord Brampton’s frown grew ever deeper. The servants longed to laugh as the family sat at their table to await their turn.
After the Bramptons had been served by Archie and James, the queue moved quickly. Evie sat with Simon, Bernie and Millie, who glowed as she listened to Bernie talking of his Irish uncle who had been a fiddler too. Simon reached for Evie’s hand below the table and she didn’t notice the food she was eating, the food she and the kitchen staff had slaved over, but somehow her plate was soon empty, and so was Simon’s. Bernie leaned across to Simon. ‘What do you say, Si, to us entertaining this mob while they finish? Have you the puff?’
Simon stood. ‘If Evie has. She used to sing in school, if I remember rightly.’
Evie leaned back, laughing. ‘You go and make a fool of yourself, if you want, pet, but leave me out of it.’
Simon shook his head. ‘Never knew you to step back from a challenge, Evie.’
She went then, and together they sang. ‘If you were the only girl in the world, and I was the only boy.’ Simon had a wonderful voice, and hers sounded good enough here, with him. They sang requests, they sang while the others danced, they sang until their throats were dry and then they sang some more, and all the time she wished she could loosen her corset. It was when they were crooning to some Ragtime that she saw Roger enter, and her voice faltered for a moment.
Simon turned to her, puzzled, but she had picked up on the beat again, looking only at him. His eyes were focused on her, his hand gripping her fingers. The song ended, he bent to her, saying, ‘I’m here. You know I’ll always be here, right by your side.’
‘I know,’ she replied.
Roger was weaving his way through to them, clapping along with the rest, but before he reached them Lady Veronica and Mr Auberon had moved to stand in front of the fiddlers and singers. Lady Veronica said, ‘I thought that delightful. You are all so very talented.’
Mr Auberon pressed a coin into each of their hands. ‘Excellent, truly truly excellent.’
Roger was examining his nails. The Bramptons moved away, and before Evie could check how much she’d been given Simon said, ‘Wait here, I’ll talk to Roger.’
She held him back. ‘We’ll both go.’
They went together and Roger looked from one to the other, his collar immaculate, his suit freshly pressed and a small rose in his buttonhole. Evie said, ‘It’s a shame you returned. It’s been so delightful in your absence, which gives you your answer to the proposition you made before you left, and Millie has far too much sense than to listen to any of your nonsense. She has quite agreed with the advice of the upper servants about any liaison with you.’
She walked on, side by side with Simon, accepting the plaudits for their performance, seeing Mrs Moore having a firm word with Millie, Sarah and Annie and all of them nodding fearfully, and she knew it would be about Roger. This had been the best evening of her life, especially with the Brampton family now taking their leave so the party could really begin. Mr Auberon had given them all a guinea. ‘It’s generous,’ she said. ‘He’s got more than enough, pet,’ Simon replied.
It was cavil day the following Sunday and Jack sipped his beer in the club Reading Room, waiting for his turn to draw, though this time he would let his marra pull out the placement. There’d already been several abnormal placements called, but a man just had to accept his luck. So far Alec, Si’s da, had pulled a placement in the top seam, which was good coal and easy to hew, but Ben, his father’s old marra, had pulled an abnormal one, which he accepted with a philosophical nod of his head. He was probably thinking of his next painting, not the shallow, low-roofed danger of his shale placement. Jack wasn’t thinking of the draw, but of the negotiations surrounding the Eight-Hour Act, the results of which were to be announced in about a month. Jeb had heard nothing of any interest from the union agents. He felt his stomach twist. The men should be kept informed, it was only right.
Jack was called up with Martin, who hummed and kissed his lucky rabbit’s paw before drawing his ticket. Thomas, the checkweighman, read out, ‘No. 13.’ Jack slapped Martin’s shoulder. ‘You’ve a lucky touch, lad. Always had, always will.’
Timmie was waiting near him, but as a trapper he wouldn’t need a dip. His da came to him. ‘Good news travels fast, Jack. That’s a pure seam.’ It didn’t matter quite so much now they had the house, but the balance still had to be paid to Grace and Edward, and money put to one side in case of a strike or a downturn in piecework rates.
Jack stared into the distance, feeling anxiety clawing at him, for they’d not win any strike unless it was national, and then only if there was no coal stockpiled. There was plenty now at
Hawton and Easton. He’d tried to argue the case against coming out with Jeb, saying they had to wait until the National Federation of Miners agreed to back them and call out all the pits.
He grinned at Timmie as he came up, a beer in his hand. Jack rumpled his hair. ‘How’s the beer?’
‘Right grand, Jack.’ There was a dark blue scar on the lad’s forehead, and several on his hands, and it was as though Timmie felt blooded. Well, he’d learn. ‘You stay careful, you hear me,’ Jack said, gripping his brother’s shoulder.
Behind him his da was coughing. He needed to be out of the pit before too long, so thank God Evie had the plan for the hotel and was growing in experience, thank God they would keep their house if his da had to retire.
Timmie was watching as his da shouldered his way towards the bar, and he said, ‘Are we helping Grace again next Sunday? She’ll need someone to run the houses, won’t she, when they’re finished, if she is to start a retirement place? D’you think . . .?’ He pointed towards his da.
Jack wanted to hug the lad. ‘By, you’ve been giving it some thought, haven’t you? I expected those would fly past your two brain cells, but you must have grown another. Aye, he’d be right grand as boss of the houses.’
Timmie punched his arm and Jack rousted him in return before pulling him close. ‘You’re canny, you are. I’ll get Mam to bring it up when Grace is at the houses.’
Timmie shook his head. ‘You know she won’t mention it, she’ll see it as charity. Ask Grace yourself, you’re round at the houses often enough.’
Jack moved away, uncertain suddenly. ‘We owe them, that’s why, and she needs help,’ he snapped and moved to the bar, barely hearing Timmie say, ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. You are there a lot, that’s all. She needs the place set to rights, so why don’t I help as well as you, then it will be fixed quicker.’
Waiting for a beer, Jack realised then that he didn’t want it fixed quicker. He didn’t want anyone helping but himself. She was nice, quiet and gentle, she smoked Woodbines, her green eyes were beautiful. She listened when he talked.
Ben came up and slapped his back. ‘I’ll get that beer in for you, man. Might rub a bit of your luck off on meself.’
‘No, you’re all right, Ben, I need to clear my head. I’m getting on home. See you at the allotment tomorrow, man.’ He walked out, the frost creating a layer of crystals on everything. There’d be a hoar frost in the morning. He went by way of the parsonage. The lights were on and he thought he saw her drift across the window. He paused for a moment, imagining her chaotic hair as it fell so often from her bun, her freckles. How could someone years older seem like his age?
The strike began on 1st January 1910 because the agents hadn’t had the bloody sense to involve the men in the decision, and there was little to do until it ended in April except gather up coal from the slag heaps or beaches, sell what they could, and eke out the days. By that time one general election had taken place but had not given Asquith the majority that would mean he had a mandate from the public to push through the budget to fund the reforms. There would need to be another election, and still the Lords held firm in their blockade. It seemed distant to Jack, and nothing to do with the humiliation of defeat and empty pockets, as he stood with the committee in Davies’ office, their caps in their hands, while Davies and Mr Auberon sat at their desks.
Jack saw the whelp’s eyes on him, and him alone, and heard his laugh as Jeb admitted defeat. ‘So, Jack Forbes,’ Auberon said. ‘You’re just an agitator, always were, always will be, and a grasping one at that, one who snatches things when they’re destined for your betters, so what can we do to bring you to heel?’ Jack felt the shock as though it was a blow. Of course, the house. What price was he to pay? For the first time above ground he felt fearful.
Auberon continued, ‘So, Jack, who’s the daft beggar now? I don’t feel it’s me.’ Jeb turned to Jack, a question in his eyes. Jack shook his head. Daft beggar? What was the bastard talking about? Jeb raised his eyebrows and said to Mr Auberon, ‘The committee is in this together, and no one thinks you’re a daft beggar. Why would you think that? Mr Davies, what’s this about?’
Mr Davies stared over their heads as though wishing he was elsewhere. Mr Auberon just laughed again. ‘Well, why would I, Jack?’ Jack didn’t understand but in that instant he knew that he was going to be dismissed, for whatever reason this fool could drum up. Was this going to spill over to the men, to Evie?
Auberon lounged back, knowing now what it was like to have someone at his mercy, and for the first time he understood his father.
‘I am not going to dismiss any of you, because you are experienced men and we need you.’ He picked up a pencil from the desk and rolled it between his fingers, seeing their surprise and relief. He continued, ‘I am not in the business of cutting off my nose to spite my face, so you will start work in the shifts Mr Davies and I have designated and in accordance with the Eight-Hour Act. As recompense for the upheaval this foolish strike has caused I will be taking over the designation of placements. There will be no cavil any longer in this pit, is that understood?’
Relief was superseded by shock, and then anger. Jeb spoke. ‘You can’t do that. It’s our right to decide where we work. It always has been, it’s a democratic process.’
Jack had clenched his hands into fists and was balancing on his toes. Auberon’s reply was immediate. ‘You are mistaken. I most certainly can and will do it. There is no legislation regarding the cavil, there is only tradition, and what’s more I am most conscious of the importance of democracy to you all and therefore I give you a choice. You, the committee, resign and the men continue with the cavil, or you stay and they lose it. In the interest of democracy I insist you put it to the general vote.’
The silence was profound. Jack said, ‘I resign.’ The others followed, though more hesitantly.
Auberon placed the pencil carefully on the blotter which lay on his desk. ‘And I refuse your resignations. It’s easy for you, Jack Forbes, with your house. If these men resign they will be evicted. They can’t all cram into the parson’s clever little idea, can they? So, I repeat, you must put it to the vote.’
They did, catching men as they came on each shift over the next two days. The vote was carried out in the club. They voted to lose the cavil. Every member of the committee received abnormal placements and Timmie was moved from trapper to putter, but in Jack’s abnormal placement. Their income would be reduced, their safety at risk. His da, who had remained as deputy on the wishes of the men, had the kist nearest to the worst abnormal placements, including Jack’s.
Auberon rode home on Tuesday, ran up the stairs to change, was about to call into the sitting room to tell Veronica of his achievement but midway he noticed the time. His father was waiting for him in the library. Auberon entered. ‘Well,’ his father ground out between clenched teeth. ‘You dismissed them as I suggested?’
Auberon shook his head, his legs like water, his voice too high. ‘No, I didn’t.’ His father stepped forward. Auberon stood his ground, moving on to his toes as Forbes had done, and found it gave him courage. He explained his actions. There was a silence and his father paced to the window, staring out at the cedar tree. Did it give him peace, as it gave Auberon? Did this man ever desire anything as pale as peace?
Auberon found his voice again. ‘You see, they have been hoisted on their own petard. They wanted democracy, they’ve got it, and they are there as an example of our power. If they had been dismissed we would have replaced them and they would have been forgotten. It’s called rubbing salt in the wound.’
His father’s shoulders were shaking and a strange noise was building. Auberon realised he was laughing. ‘Chip off the old block, you are, my boy. Damn it, we’re turning you into a Brampton at last. A brandy is in order.’
He pointed to the sofas either side of the fireplace. Auberon had never been permitted to sit in the library. It felt strange. He did so, and his father came to loom over him, handing him
brandy, and then sat opposite, raising his glass. ‘To you, my boy.’ His smile was ghastly and unseen by Auberon until this day.
Auberon sipped and the brandy seared his throat. He had drunk too much in the last two years and it hadn’t helped with Wainey’s loss, with his loneliness. Would anything ever? He allowed himself to sit back as his father did, crossing one leg over the other as he also did. The fire was lit, the flames flickered and soothed. It was strange to be in his father’s presence without pain. It was good, it was bloody good.
‘Drink down the brandy, boy.’ He did as instructed and accepted another. Again his father loomed over him and before he could stop he shrank, but then straightened. When he left ten minutes later, light-headed, he mounted the stairs to his room. Once there he leaned back against the door. He had been clever, he had been unforgivably clever but it was the only way he could think of to keep the committee in their houses and their families fed.
But had it really been necessary to put all the Forbes into the same area of the mine, where they would all suffer if there was an explosion or flood? He knew the answer to that and the worst thing was that he knew he’d do it all over again, because Jack Forbes had laughed at him, told that Manton woman he was a daft beggar and been at the forefront of the strike, whatever Davies said about him being the only calm voice speaking against it. He was known as an agitator and agitators got their comeuppance.
Ver knocked and he moved from the door to his sofa. The fire was unlit, and it was cold. She entered. He waved her to sit. She stood instead, just inside the door.
She said, ‘Well done, Wainey and Mother would be proud of the way you’ve outwitted Father and kept the committee in work, but I simply don’t understand why you’ve taken against the Forbes family in this way, especially as Jack Forbes was the one who warned against the strike. Dr Nicholls told us all about it at dinner during the strike, you know he did. Be businesslike, Aub, and rotate the abnormal placements in the interests of fairness, then you can reinstitute the cavil after a year or so. By then Father will be too involved in the dreadnought contracts he’s almost got in his pocket. Once the extended steelworks is in full production he’ll barely think about the pits.’
Easterleigh Hall Page 19
