Easterleigh Hall

by Margaret Graham

  Lady Veronica waved a hand but didn’t turn. ‘This will now be forgotten, Evie, and I lay claim to the hat for ever. Is that acceptable?’

  It was, indeed.

  Lady Veronica found Roger in Auberon’s dressing room, brushing down his dinner jacket. She slipped through the door quietly and closed it behind her, leaning back against it. She disliked this odious man intensely. He was like a snake and used his position to overawe silly girls who then faced a life of ruin. Everyone knew but nothing was done, and it was time that changed.

  She said, with no preamble whatsoever, ‘Roger, it has been brought to my attention that you have been stealing from Lord Brampton’s cellar.’ She had no proof of this, it could be quite untrue, but what did that matter when it came to an accusation by a mistress to a servant?

  Roger turned, his thin face stunned, and the brush dropped from his hand. ‘That’s a lie.’

  She stood straight, recognising the incipient violence in the man, for, after all, she had spent much time with her father. She kept her expression as disdainful as anything her stepmother could drum up and knew she must speak with no hesitation or uncertainty. ‘I will do nothing about it but will expect absolute discretion concerning the name of our assistant cook. I will not be without her and it is I who will be lady of this house on my marriage, for this will be our home. We cannot afford to be without someone of her skill, but we can afford to be without a valet. You would be easy to replace. Remember that my father has already had occasion to be displeased with you over the loss of the Froggett houses. One word, Roger, just one word and you will never work in this or any house again.’

  The rapid passage of emotions across his thin full lipped face was fascinating. Fear, anger, fury and fear again. Finally there was acceptance and hatred. Well, that was mutual.

  She left the room without another word. Power was addictive and dangerous, and must not be abused. With one word she could ruin a person’s life. Whether she told Aub about Evie was debatable. He should know, but did he need to know?

  Chapter Sixteen

  TIMMIE’S BAIT TIN clattered against his belt as he and Jack walked ahead of their father on their way to their Saturday shift at Auld Maud. It was 5 a.m. and dark. It was a bit of a leg but he liked the walk, and Mam’s scarf kept out the worst of the wind. It was 2nd January 1913, and he swore he’d heard a cuckoo yesterday on a walk, but Jack said it was a pigeon if it was anything. ‘It’s bloody winter, you daft beggar.’

  ‘Is it colder this winter, do you think?’ Timmie pulled his muffler over his nose.

  ‘A bit, maybe.’ Jack sank a hand into his jacket pocket, his bait tin clattering as loudly as Timmie’s, his tools hitched over his shoulder.

  Timmie told him that he had just one more lead soldier to paint and then he’d have the whole regiment. There was no reply. ‘Did you hear that, Jack? Just one more to go.’

  ‘Aye, I heard you, but it’s like walking next to an empty vessel, with all the chat from you. It’s before dawn for pity’s sake, man.’ Jack was quieter these days, he had been for months now, but perhaps Millie might make a difference. Timmie had grumbled that she was a bit of a feeble lass really, and cried a lot. Jack said that you did when you loved someone and you couldn’t have them. Timmie thought his brother was trying to take Millie out of herself.

  He nudged Jack. ‘Let’s go to the club tonight, shall we? I fancy a beer.’

  His da called out, ‘Not too many for you, Timmie. You’re still only sixteen and haven’t the head for it, or have you forgotten the last time? Your mam won’t have that mess on her proggy rug again. You’ll be seventeen by spring, so celebrate then.’

  ‘Howay, Da, I’m doing a man’s job and no, I haven’t forgotten, how can I with you lot reminding me every Saturday. I’ll never have as many as that again but it’ll never be your fiftieth birthday again, will it?’ They were entering Easton and Martin, Jack’s marra, came out of his backyard and fell in next to Jack. Tony, Timmie’s marra, came from his yard and fell in next to him. ‘We’re like the whelp’s Territorials, marching in step,’ Timmie called back to his da.

  Jack tipped his cap at him. ‘Platoons don’t talk, they march.’

  Tony said, ‘Or they’re lead and sit on a shelf and do nothing, while the rest of us work.’ They laughed.

  Steadily they were gathering men including Ben, his da’s old marra, and Sam. Ben walked with Bob, talking of his painting. He’d offered to paint Timmie’s collection in action, when the final soldier was finished.

  ‘Not long now, Ben,’ Timmie threw over his shoulder.

  Jack called out, ‘That’s what he said a week ago.’

  ‘Well, it takes time. No need to rush it. Now we have Millie it’s been harder to concentrate with all her caterwauling.’

  His da called, ‘Ah, she’s getting sorted, aye, she is. She’ll move on when there’s somewhere for her. Grace is on to it, isn’t she Jack?’

  Jack grunted. ‘How should I know? I only dig for her from time to time.’

  All the men grew quieter as they trudged up to the pithead. It was the first day back. Had the whelp kept his word at last and reinstated the cavil? Davies was waiting for them, holding up a piece of paper. He was grinning. ‘It’s here, lads. Cavil’s reinstated. You can draw any time you like now, so have an extra beer tonight.’ There was no cheer. They should have had it months or a year ago, or two, but quietly they looked at one another and smiled. Timmie slapped Jack on the shoulder.

  ‘You’ll be sorting the drawing then, Jack?’ Martin asked. ‘Aye, it’ll be the committee who’ll do that,’ he replied.

  Timmie saw his smile and knew that Jack was relieved. He’d have the chance of drawing a better placement at long last and what was more, Da had just heard from Davies that an extra beer was in order. He grinned across and his da shook his head in mock exasperation. ‘Aye, I heard, but remember the rug.’

  Discarding their jackets and picking up their tokens and lamps, the men shuffled into the cage, their spirits lighter. Timmie was on the tub today, though sometimes he was with the wagons and Galloways. He preferred the ponies, and his mam had given him a carrot for them. He closed his eyes as the cage plummeted into the darkness. He couldn’t bear it, but he’d never tell his da or Jack. They seemed to take it in their stride but Jack always stood with him as he did today, his arm touching his, and the pressure comforted him.

  At the bottom they trudged to their placements, the heat and the smell, and the dust sinking into his lungs before he’d gone more than a few yards. Their lamps lit the way, a dull glow. Tony came with him to the stables which had been carved out of the rock and coal, and they each fed a carrot to their favourite, Twilight.

  Timmie said, ‘They know us, Tony.’ He loved the snuffling of the muzzle against his palm, but not the slobbering bits of carrot that fell from Twilight’s mouth. He shook his hand free of them, and then pulled the pony’s ears. He left Tony to harness up and trudged the mile to the placement he would be serving today.

  Jack scuffed along. He was tired, always tired now. Sleep was slow to come, because all he could think of was Grace. It was pathetic and he kicked out at the dust. Martin elbowed him. ‘Watch your step, I don’t want any more muck in me than’s there already, you silly beggar.’

  ‘Sorry, man.’ He’d hoped the longing for her would fade in the face of her indifference. After all, she just needed someone to dig. He’d tried other women, of course he had, but she was there, in between, and it made for this anger that gnawed at him. No wonder he won his fights every time. It was a way for it to come out.

  His da was walking behind him, but not for long. He stopped at his kist and called out as Jack and Martin plodded on, ‘I’ll check the roof and the props at Ben’s seam, then I’ll be along.’

  ‘Aye, Da.’ His father had survived two strikes as deputy, at the request of the men. They wanted him checking their placements – he was thorough and painstaking. The economies were still in place and the recycling
of the props had increased. But the cavil was reinstated so Jack’s coal grade could be better, and Timmie’s run of tubs stood the chance of improving once out of Brampton’s control. He made himself listen to Martin talking about the football. Always it was the footie, and he smiled now. He liked routine, he liked what was normal.

  Martin took the lead, humming as the roof dropped lower and lower, taking the scabs off their backs, and half a mile in Martin knocked his head on an outcrop. The hum became an oath. The roof sighed, the pine props creaked and hissed, coal dust fell into their eyes as their lamps shone a yard or so in front. They stopped, waited. It was nothing. Jack fell back a few more paces, trying not to breathe in or swallow more dust than he had to. ‘Nearly at the face, lad,’ Martin called, trudging on.

  Within ten minutes they were there, crouching even lower as the roof sloped to two foot six or thereabouts. ‘It’s a bugger of a face, and it’s going to be grand to have the chance of better,’ Martin shouted to him. He always shouted at the face. Jack had asked why but the lad didn’t know. He just did. So he kept on doing it and it had kept him safe so far. ‘Hang on,’ Jack called. ‘Wait for Da. He’s coming, I can hear him swearing, he’ll have caught his head, so it’s not just you, lad.’ They both laughed as his da appeared, crouching and dragging two short props and a stool.

  Jack said to Martin, ‘I’m sorry, lad, for the poor . . .’

  ‘I don’t want to hear that again. I told you last time, and the time before that. It’s not your fault the whelp’s the bastard who put us here again.’

  ‘I’ve brought you a cracket,’ Da said. ‘I reckon you could cut in and make more headroom.’ He handed the short stool to Martin and peered in the gloom at the roof, wedging a prop under a miniature fault. He held his lamp higher, checking again. ‘Keep your eye on that, lads, and I’ll be round in a few hours.’

  He patted Jack as he passed. ‘Keep careful, lad.’

  ‘Always, Da.’ His da’s face was already black with dust, his teeth white even in the low light from the lamp. Jack’s would be the same. How the hell could a pitman offer someone like Grace anything, and why would she look at a lad, for that was what he was alongside her. She was around thirty and he coming up to twenty-three, but he never thought of age when he was with her.

  His da’s footsteps were receding. He took the pick and worked with Martin until his da came again, bringing two more props, examining the roof and eating his bait with them where the roof was a bit higher, crunching coal dust as well as bread and dripping.

  Down by the cage Timmie and Tony stopped work and sank on to their haunches. They had stripped off their shirts and were sweating in the heat, gulping down water from their tin bottles. It was warm but wet. They ate their bread and dripping and kept enough to feed Twilight, who was standing patiently a few yards from them. Mam had given Timmie four cakes, two each. He divvied them up.

  ‘Millie made them after our Evie went back to work yesterday. Our Evie taught her.’ Tony nodded as Twilight shifted his weight from foot to foot. Timmie scooped the last of the cake crumbs into his mouth, nodding towards the Galloway. ‘What d’you reckon he thought about being dragged away from the fields after the strike?’

  Tony wiped his mouth, took a drink, leaned back his head and sighed. ‘A load of bollocks is what he thought.’

  Timmie knew that he and Tony would be marras for ever. There was no one else he’d rather be working with. By, but he was a heathen all the same, since he’d not cross the road for a lead soldier. He jammed the stopper in his water bottle. ‘Up and at ’em, man,’ he said. ‘The tubs’ll be piling up.’

  Bob eased himself up. ‘I’m away, lads. Take care now.’ He stooped very low, stumbling along the seam, listening, always listening to the roof, to the sides, and cursing as an outcrop caught his back. Another scab torn away. He groaned quietly, feeling the soreness of his knees, the stiffness in his thighs and back. Sometimes he thought he’d not be able to get up for a shift, but it wasn’t an option. Young Evie was getting so close now to being able to manage a hotel, so she said, and to hear Millie talk she was a right canny cook, his lass was. He felt the grin crease the dust on his face. She was right, they should start small. There was a sound. A crash, a whoosh of air. He turned, and stumbled back to the face.

  There was a heap of coal between Jack and Martin. ‘It’s all right, Da, I was taking the last of the top coal and the wedge stuck fast. I took the pick to ease it and the whole bloody lot came down, right between the two of us. It’s our lucky day. It just got our bloody ankles, nothing too bad. Just a graze.’

  Bob felt his heart beating too fast and too loud. ‘Then don’t take a bloody pick to it. Worm it out, use a bit of nous, for God’s sake.’

  Jack grinned at his da. ‘Calm yourself, man. You’re not getting rid of us that easy, is he Mart?’ Bob could hear the shake in his son’s voice, and in Martin’s too as he replied, ‘Not unless he’s placed a charge and is waiting to blow it just as we pass.’

  ‘Clear that lot,’ Bob ordered, ‘and call in the putter. I’m off to see Timmie, at least he’s got a grain of sense about him.’

  The other two laughed as he set off again, his nerves jangling. He stopped on the way to check the props at the other faces, and all along the seams. He had to draw out some props from a seam that was defunct, hauling them back quickly, gathering them as the roof sagged but held.

  Timmie checked that his token was still strung inside the tub, because he didn’t want to work like this and find the weighman didn’t know it was his piece. He pushed the tub down the dark hot low seam towards the face, black sweat pouring from him. The cakes had been grand and he wondered again what it would be like living in a hotel, away from the village, from his marras, and a bit of him wanted to go, but most of him wanted to stay. Here was his life. Here, in this bastard of a pit with the dark, and the sounds of cursing, singing, tubs, picks, boots, and the charges his da set.

  He slowed, wiped his forehead and spat into the dark at any rats lurking, then shoved hard again, his shoulders straining, his head lowered. Bastard seam, just too damn low for Twilight and Tony. There were other deputies, but his da was the best. He was the best at everything, well, next to Jack. ‘And by, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but near Jack,’ he said. He liked to hear his own voice, otherwise it was too dark, too creaky, too hot.

  He was on the uphill now, and he got his back to the tub, shoving it, forcing his legs to brace against the weight. It was so damn dark but somehow your eyes learned to see. Sid and his marra were working this seam. Timmie liked Sid, he’d buy Timmie a beer at the club without a lecture, and let Timmie buy him one back.

  The seam was levelling out and the roof was lifting. He stood straighter, then totally upright. The relief was immense but he knew it would drop down again soon, which it did. The rails ran right up to this face but you couldn’t get a pony along here, not in a million years. He’d hitch up with Tony on the way back but he’d be down the Fenton seam now, picking up some other tubs. The roof was bloody low again, but Sid was working the face in a high-roofed cavern and he’d be there soon. He shoved again and heard Sid calling, ‘Got a tortoise as a putter, have we lad? Hope you paint your toy soldiers quicker than this?’

  Timmie shouted, ‘They’re not toys, they’re lead soldiers. Accurate, they are.’ The men laughed.

  He helped Sid’s marra, Dave, to shovel in the coal as Sid continued to hew, his back bare in the heat, and bleeding. He’d knocked scabs off and had a cut. Well, who hadn’t?

  ‘Watch the descent, lad,’ Sid called as Timmie shoved the heavily laden tub away from the face. ‘Can’t have that last soldier we’ve all heard about being left unpainted.’

  They all laughed, again.

  He shoved the tub along, his back and shoulders aching even more under the strain, ducking down as the roof lowered, his arms spreadeagled and gripping the edge as he breathed in and tried to remember where the descent started. It wasn’t steep, but you could g
et a bit of a lick going if you didn’t pull back in time. He felt it then, the easing of weight, and it seemed too soon. He leaned back, pulling, but it wasn’t braking as it should, but then it caught. His thighs and arms were tight and felt as though they’d snap, daft beggar that he was. He breathed out hard with relief.

  Then he heard his da calling, ‘Timmie lad, just coming to see all’s well.’ He was coming along the track. Timmie lifted his head, relaxed just a fraction and that was a mistake because the tub seemed to pull away. God, it had a life of its own. It was going down the slope and he threw himself backwards, digging in his heels, gripping the tub, harder and harder but it felt as though his hands were slipping and his father was there, somewhere in the dark ahead of him. The tub was gathering speed, quicker, quicker. His heels were skidding along within the tracks. He tried to hammer in his heels but he was moving too fast.

  Timmie called, ‘Get off the track, Da. Get off the bloody track.’ He couldn’t hold the tub. His mind was racing. He let go, running alongside, racing it, beating it. He threw himself in front, digging in his legs, slowing it. ‘Get off the track, Da!’ he screamed but it was pushing him, shoving, it was too strong, he couldn’t hold it. Just couldn’t hold the bloody thing and now he could see his da, flattened against the wall as the tub was pushing him faster than his legs, pushing, pushing. He tried to shove back but he was going over. For God’s sake, he was going, his legs weren’t working, they were lagging. He must get away from the front, he must leap for the side, but it was pushing him, shoving him, down. Down. He just couldn’t stop it, and he saw his da leap out and on to the track, his hands outstretched.

  ‘Timmie!’ he heard him screaming, ‘Timmie, my lad.’

  ‘Da,’ he called but he knew it hadn’t left his throat because it was too late, his face was in the dust and there was no light. Just a thundering noise and a huge and massive pain which never seemed to stop.

  Bob had reached his son after the tub had passed over him. He held him as the tub jolted off the rails and into the side, tumbling the coal over his legs while some fell down to the track, the tub crashing after it. ‘I need to check the props.’ He could hear his voice. ‘I should check the props, Timmie lad.’ He was howling, but he should check the props. He should listen to the roof, for the creaks and the groans and the hisses. He should, but all he could hear was his own howling and then there were hands on him, holding him, easing him to the side. Sid was shouting, ‘Get Jack, for God’s sake get Jack.’