An Orphan's Secret

by Maggie Hope

‘And bad girls who push their little brothers off the seat and then tell lies about it don’t get to go on the Sunday School trip to the seaside.’ Mr Roberts gave the ultimate threat. He cast a quelling glance over all the scholars as they gasped and murmured to each other.

  ‘I don’t want to go to the seaside. We lived at the sea, it’s nowt so special,’ Alice declared stoutly.

  But Meg had had enough. Holding Miles under one arm, she grabbed Alice and pulled her on to the seat beside her, holding her tight so that she couldn’t move.

  ‘Whisht!’ she whispered fiercely in her sister’s ear. ‘Whisht or I’ll tell Da and he’ll bray the life out of you. Do you hear me, Alice?’

  Alice looked at Meg, and from her to Mr Roberts, and suddenly her defiance left her. She sat still on the seat and cried softly to herself. There was silence for a minute while the superintendent watched. Satisfied that his authority was no longer under threat from the little girl, he went back to the business in hand.

  ‘Now, children, we’ll begin again. Hands together now, close your eyes. “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild—” ’

  ‘By, I thought our Alice was for it there,’ said Jack Boy as they went out into the sunshine after class. ‘Eeh, Mr Roberts was fair frothing, he was.’

  ‘I never did anything,’ Alice said, ‘our Miles pushed me an’ I pushed him back, that’s all, it wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘I fell off the seat,’ said Miles, ‘I hurt me leg.’

  ‘Let’s have a look, our Miles. There’s nothing there to see, you big babby, that’s—’

  Meg grabbed hold of them both, keeping them by her. Mr Roberts was talking to another teacher by the gate and she wanted to get past them without attracting their attention. She managed it. The two men were deep in conversation and ignoring the children sidling by them. But Meg heard what they were saying.

  ‘That little Maddison lad’s too young to be coming to Sunday School any road,’ the younger man said.

  ‘Aye, but they’re motherless, poor bairns. That eldest girl is all they’ve got but for their father,’ answered Mr Roberts.

  ‘They’ll be growing up wild, you mark my words, causing a ruckus like that, and during prayertime an’ all. What’ll they be like when they’re older? Why, when we were bairns—’

  Meg didn’t hear the rest. She was hurrying the children away, burning with humiliation. If Mam was alive they wouldn’t talk like that. They’d all gone to Sunday School by Miles’s age, hadn’t they? Wild! Growing up wild, he’d said. Why, they were doing nowt of the sort! She’d never let Jack Boy or Miles hang about on street corners like that Wesley Cornish and that lot, swaggering about like grown men, shouting after the lasses and drinking beer an’ all. She’d seen them herself. Only about twelve they were, or maybe thirteen; they were going down the pit now and they couldn’t do that until they were twelve at least. Now Wesley Cornish was wild all right, and his mam was alive, a chapel woman herself. It had nowt to do with whether you had a mam.

  ‘Howay in here, lass, I’ve made the dinner for all of us.’ Her aunt’s voice broke into her indignant thoughts.

  Auntie Phoebe was standing by the gate, Bella in her arms, waiting for them. Bella lay gurgling happily, looking up at Auntie Phoebe, making no effort to sit up though she was nearly a year old now. The smell of roasting meat and Yorkshire pudding wafted out of the open door of Auntie Phoebe’s house. She stood aside as Alice and Miles, their dispute forgotten, whooped with glee and raced up the path, then followed them into the house.

  ‘Go and get your da, Meg,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘he’s in the garden. I saw him digging over that patch where the taties were.’

  ‘I was going to do the dinner, like,’ said Meg, thinking of the scrag end of mutton waiting in the pantry, cooked with barley and all ready to warm up. But what could she do? Auntie Phoebe was so kind. She was good to the bairns, helped out all the time. And she had no bairns of her own. Meg watched her now, gazing fondly down at the baby, cooing and talking baby talk to her. And Meg could see that the baby was happy, anybody could see that. She went to call Da in for the meal, and realised she was going to have to let Bella go to Auntie Phoebe. Her feelings were still raw from the trouble in Sunday School. By, if it was the last thing she did, she’d see that her brothers didn’t grow up wild. Nor Alice, neither.

  Uncle Tot was talking quietly to Auntie Phoebe when Meg got back to the door. She paused for a moment, realising he was talking about Da.

  ‘He’s a loner, Phoebe, he is, I get a bit worried about him down the pit. A good worker mind, his marras say that of him, but he never has a bit of a crack wi’ them at bait time. I’ve seen him going off into a corner on his own, eating his bread and jam and swilling it down with water, then going back to the face straight away. Why, man, the others haven’t time to get started on their bait. An’ he’s got no friends, like, never goes for a drink with his marras. A man needs a drink. You have to get rid of the coal dust, like, haven’t you?’

  ‘Aye, well, it’s better than going the other way,’ declared Auntie Phoebe. ‘There’s many a poor body in the rows would wish her man never took a drink of ale.’

  ‘Aye, but Phoebe . . .’ Uncle Tot, sitting by the fire with his feet on the fender, moved out of the way as his wife leaned over and opened the door, letting out a blast of hot air. She took out the pudding tins with the Yorkshires risen way over the rims, rich with the browning from the meat. As she turned to put them on the table, she saw Meg hovering in the door.

  ‘Howay, lass, give us a hand with this lot,’ she said loudly.

  ‘Aye.’ Uncle Tot got to his feet, and pulled his dangling braces into position. ‘Aye, lass, howay in, don’t hang about there,’ he said. ‘Is your da coming?’ He glanced sheepishly at Auntie Phoebe.

  I’ll not let on I heard anything, decided Meg to herself. But she knew why Tot was worried about Da. She’d lived among the pitmen long enough now to know that a gang of men working a seam together had to be friends in and out of the pit. They had to be able to depend on each other. The work was dangerous, it could mean their lives. If Da was a chapel man, why then his marras would understand if he didn’t go in the pubs. But he wasn’t, never went inside a chapel. Not since Mam died. Eeh, she wished he’d be more friendly, joke on a bit like the others. There was always a group of men squatting on their hunkers at the corner, off shift and enjoying a crack together. But Da was never with them. That was something else to worry about.

  In the summer of 1887, Jack Boy left school. He was to work at the pit head with the old men and widows and other young boys, screening the coal as it came out of the pit. He was nine years old and thought himself well able to do a man’s job.

  Meg sent him off on the Monday after the school closed for the summer holiday, her heart heavy. But Jack Boy was excited. This was his big day. He grinned happily as he set off to meet his old school mate. They were starting together.

  ‘Where’s me bait tin, our Meg?’ he asked importantly. ‘Howay, man, I can’t be late on me first day.’

  Meg handed the shiny new tin over along with the water bottle.

  ‘An’ you be careful, our Jack Boy,’ she said. ‘Keep out of the road of the coal tubs when they come up.’

  ‘Aw, our Meg, don’t be so daft,’ scoffed Jack Boy, but Meg felt on edge all day. There were dangers on the screens, she knew there were. Hadn’t there been a lad crushed between two tubs only last month? Well, at least the lads didn’t go down the pits nowadays, not till they were twelve. Another three years for that, thank God.

  Going into the yard for the tin bath, Meg brought it into the kitchen and placed it before the black-leaded range. Da would be in in a minute and would be wanting his bath as soon as he’d eaten. Then there would be pit clothes to dash against the wall in the back yard to get rid of the coal dust and the washing to start. By, she thought as she worked, I don’t want Alice to leave school when she’s nine, I want her to stay on. She’s clever, our Alice. I want her to get
a good job, mebbe with the Cooperative Society, the store in Bishop Auckland. Eeh, wouldn’t that be lovely?

  Eight

  ‘Does your da know you’re out?’

  Meg didn’t look round to see which one of the lads on the corner was tormenting her, she knew it was that Wesley Cornish. Holding her head high and gripping her shopping basket tightly in both hands, she went on her way to the store. The jeering and giggling of the lads rang in her ears which flushed as pink as her cheeks.

  By! I hate them lads, she said to herself. Can’t leave a body alone. They come off shift and have nothing to do but pester folk. Why don’t they get away to bed, like Da and Jack Boy when they come in?

  Meg became aware that someone had fallen into step beside her, one of the lads; she turned a furious face to him.

  ‘Get away!’ she hissed. ‘You leave me alone, Wesley Cornish, or I’ll call the polis.’

  Wesley Cornish grinned, an open, cheerful grin which lit up his light brown eyes and showed his strong white teeth. He backed off, raising a hand in self-defence.

  ‘Eeh, Margaret Anne Maddison,’ he said, giving her her full name as she had him, ‘give us a chance. By, you’re bonny when you’re mad, you are.’

  Meg turned on her heel and walked rapidly away. Why couldn’t she think of a quick retort, like Alice? Alice was only nine now, but she was never short of an answer, not to anyone. And here was Meg, sixteen years old all but, and blushing and tongue-tied when a lad made up to her. She got to the end of the row before realising that Wesley had stopped following her. In spite of herself she couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder before rounding the corner. And could have kicked herself, for there he was, not ten yards back, laughing and waving.

  ‘Ta ra, Margaret Anne Maddison. I’ll be seeing you.’

  Meg seethed. A group of women were standing by the end gate gossiping and all of them turned and craned their necks to see who it was calling after her. Meg stomped on her way. Next time, she thought, I’ll send Alice for the shopping. Wesley did that on purpose, he did. Now everybody’ll think me and Wesley Cornish are going with each other.

  Thinking of Alice brought a touch of pride. She was nine years old coming up ten and she wasn’t going to leave school, Da had agreed that she could stay on at least for a year or two.

  ‘It’d be a shame for our Alice to leave school,’ Meg had said persuasively. ‘She’s clever, always top of the class.’

  Da was nodding his head in agreement. After all, with Jack Boy earning and almost old enough to go down the pit, not just work on the screens, they didn’t actually need Alice to earn.

  ‘Well, I don’t see what she needs with all that book learning,’ Auntie Phoebe had put in. ‘I never went to school at all and I’ve got by, haven’t I? She’d pursed her lips and stared at Meg, defying her to contradict.

  ‘Things are different now, Auntie Phoebe,’ Meg had said mildly. ‘You didn’t have the chance to go to school.’

  All the while Alice had been sitting on the form in the corner anxiously listening to her elders debating her future. For once she was quiet and solemn but Meg had known Alice desperately wanted to stay on at school, not just for a year or two but to become a pupil teacher. Alice wanted it passionately. But Meg had thought that if she told Da that now, he would think it an impossible ambition. Best get him to agree to one extra year at a time.

  ‘Aye. All right,’ he’d said. ‘So long as you can manage, Meg.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s fair on the other bairns,’ Auntie Phoebe had said, and gone out of the door and stumped off down the path.

  ‘Da! Thank you, Da, I’ll work in the house and help our Meg, I will. I’ll do anything!’

  Meg smiled now at the memory of Alice dancing round Da in the kitchen. Carrying her basket home from the shop, she was almost dancing herself. Eeh, life was grand.

  ‘Is that smile for me, Margaret Anne Maddison?’

  Meg sighed. She’d completely forgotten about Wesley and the other lads. Determinedly she didn’t look at him nor speak to him, but rushed down the row to her gate and up the path to the house. What was she going to do about Wesley Cornish?

  ‘You doing the washing the day, Meg?’

  Jack was sitting at the kitchen table eating his bacon and black pudding. He was still black from the fore shift at the pit, though he had shed his jacket and shirt, both stiff with coal dust, and was sitting in his undershirt. Even that was stiff with the all-pervading dust and the hair on his forearms stood up with it. He looked at his daughter with that dead expression in his eyes which had been there since the death of his wife.

  Meg paused in her journey from the back yard with the tin bath which she was getting ready for her father. She was surprised. He spoke so little to her or the other children that if he started a conversation it was always something strictly necessary.

  ‘Aye,’ she answered, standing up straight and stretching her spine unconsciously. Bending over the wash-tub, the poss-tub, so often made her back ache.

  ‘But you were washing yesterday.’

  Meg bit her lip. It was true she had been washing yesterday but that had been Mrs Brown’s. For a year or two now, Meg had been working ‘monthlys’. That was, going out to women who were laid up in bed after having a baby, cleaning up a bit for them, maybe making a pot pie for the man coming off shift and bringing dirty clothes home to wash and dry and iron. She’d not told Da. He never noticed, not usually, what she was doing. But it earned an extra two or three shillings a week.

  ‘Aye,’ she said at last, ‘but I was helping out . . .’ She looked at her da and broke off what she was saying. He seemed to have forgotten about it and went on with his breakfast. Meg filled the iron washing bowl, the set pot, and lit the fire under it, sighing. Not at the work she had to do. Work didn’t bother her, she usually hummed as she worked, it was no trouble. But she felt unsettled today, unhappy somehow. She’d thought she’d got used to Da’s ways, but today she found his indifference bothering her. He hadn’t even been interested enough to ask her why she had to wash clothes two days in a row.

  Da went up to bed and Meg cleared the table for she would need it later on to hold the steaming piles of washing. Da was a funny one all right, she mused, mechanically sorting the white or delicate articles from the heavy cottons, keeping the pit clothes well away from them on the floor. If she didn’t get the first lot of possings done and the whites into the boiler before dinner time, she would not be finished before Alice and Miles came in from school. In spite of all her resolutions to the contrary, Meg had got out of the habit of including Bella when she thought of the younger ones. Bella would go next-door straight away; she thought of herself as Auntie Phoebe’s bairn.

  Dragging the large poss tub and possing stick out of the outhouse in the yard, Meg set it up near the set pot boiler. Soon she was working steadily, rhythmically, up and down with the weighted stick, forcing the dirt out of the clothes, watching the water bubbling up through them and singing to herself in time to the rhythm of her arms. Her vaguely troubled thoughts disappeared with the work. She had a lot to be thankful for, she knew.

  By the time Jack Boy came in from his shift at the pit, most of the clothes were waving in the wind in the front garden and Meg was just finishing off the last possing of pit clothes, lifting them to the heavy wooden rollers and threading them through. Alice was drying out the set pot, leaning over the edge to reach the bottom, in serious danger of toppling in altogether.

  ‘Your dinner’s ready,’ Meg said swiftly, on the defensive. Jack Boy hated her taking on outside work and he wasn’t like Da, he noticed straight away if she did.

  ‘Why do you do it?’ he asked now, rubbing the back of his hand wearily across his brow and smearing the black, sweaty smuts. ‘It was washing day yesterday. I mean, it won’t be long before our Miles is on the screens, we can do without it. You’ve plenty to do here.’

  Meg smiled placatingly. It was true, Miles would be working in a few months, he wante
d to, he was no scholar like Alice. But it had started with Mam’s funeral and Da’s determination to pay back every penny it had cost Mr Grizedale. It had taken a long time, and then Alice had been poorly with a bout of fever and medicine cost money. The money was repaid now to Mr Grizedale, but Meg liked to keep a few shillings in hand. And then there had been union meetings. There was unrest in the air. Suppose there was a strike? Best have a bit put away, it didn’t hurt.

  ‘I’ve got a nice pot pie on the fire,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave this and put it out for you.’

  ‘I’m not hungry, our Meg.’

  Meg looked at Jack Boy in quick concern. He was short for his age, going on thirteen, but was already developing the strong shoulders and arms of the miner. It was impossible to tell if he was pale because of the coal dust. She put a hand to feel his forehead to see if he was sickening for something but he knocked it impatiently away.

  ‘Aw, give over, our Meg, I’m all right. I’m just not hungry. I’ll have a wash and go for a walk out. I’ll eat me dinner after.’

  Reassured, Meg called to Alice: ‘Get the bath in. I’ve saved some hot water in the buckets, they’re by the fire. Then call Da and tell him the dinner’s ready.’

  As soon as the meal was over and the pots washed, Meg took off her sacking apron and combed back her hair, securing it into a knot at the nape of her neck with hairpins.

  ‘I’m just going for a walk myself,’ she said. Alice looked up hopefully, and Meg hesitated. She still worried about Alice’s health; her winter cough had lasted well into summer this year. Usually Meg kept her indoors in the evenings. But though it was September already, the day had been very warm. In fact, it was still warm, it could almost have been an evening in early August. The fresh air might do Alice good. There was no stink from the coke ovens at the minute.

  ‘Howay, then. Put your shawl on mind, I mean it.’

  Alice had started to protest that it was too warm for a shawl but shut up at Meg’s last words. When Meg said she meant it, nothing would change her mind.