‘Thanks, Sam,’ Louie smiled back.
Chapter Four
Iris sank back into the plush red velvet of her cinema chair and gave herself up to the images that flashed before her on the big screen. For once, Davie had impressed her; it had been his idea to treat her to an afternoon at the new Palladium picture house in Durham. She had gasped in delight at the glitter of gilt and chromium around them and the feel of new plush carpet underfoot. The Wurlitzer organ had played for them, filling this new palace with music, then leaving the stage like a glamorous star, glowing in a colourful shimmer of lights.
‘That’s him,’ Iris squealed with pleasure, ‘Ramon Novarro!’
Davie watched the dark and dashing film star jerking through his part in The Prisoner of Zenda. In the gloom he tugged at his own attempts at a moustache and cursed the Kirkup parentage that had made him fair. Still, Iris seemed happy, and when he slid his hand across to grasp hers, she did not resist.
He gazed at her profile, the small, neat features of her face framed by waves of short auburn hair. He had preferred her hair long but was growing used to the new style; it certainly made her look sophisticated - like Clara Bow. To Davie she was still the prettiest girl he had ever set eyes on, and then he told himself not to be so soft. A lass is a lass, after all, he thought ruefully, and this one was costing him a fortune.
Davie had bought her sheet music, cream cakes and now this expensive trip to the pictures. He had had to beg Louie to lend him some of the precious housekeeping money in order to come into Durham and take Iris out. If his mother found out there would be hell to pay. Louie had been annoyed with him for asking, but he had got round her objections in the end and he knew he could trust his sister not to tell of his debts.
‘She must be Mary Pickford the way you go on about this lass,’ Louie had said scornfully. ‘When are we going to meet her?’
‘Maybes the summer picnic,’ Davie had rashly hinted.
‘Where does she live?’ Louie’s curiosity was waxing.
‘Now that would be telling.’ Davie smiled infuriatingly. Even Louie could not be told that Iris was a publican’s daughter; he could not risk his teetotal father finding out at this stage.
Iris’s hand was warm in his and he squeezed it, then decided to slip his arm around her shoulders while she stared at the screen.
‘Watch the film, Davie man,’ Iris insisted without glancing away from the giant image of Novarro, but she did not push him away. Davie’s pulse quickened; today might be his lucky day.
Louie was tidying away the men’s clothes into the under-stair cupboard when Sam Ritson called. The back door was open and warm May sunshine spilled into the stuffy kitchen. Sadie ran in clutching a piece of washing line she used as a skipping rope.
‘Sam’s here, Louie,’ she shouted breathlessly. Louie felt her stomach jolt but carried on with her methodical folding.
‘Tell him John’s gone to help Eb in the allotment.’ She tried to keep her voice level.
‘It wasn’t John I came to see.’ Sam was standing in the doorway, a few feet away from Louie. She turned round with a start. The sun shone in behind him and she could not make out his expression, but he stood there stiffly as if he were about to make a speech.
‘Da’s at the Institute and Mam’s next door at Edie Parkin’s,’ Louie gabbled. Her voice sounded husky and nervous to her ears.
‘I thought you might like to go for a walk,’ Sam suggested, in a voice so stern it was almost an order.
‘A walk?’ Louie repeated.
‘Aye.’ Sam lifted his cap and scratched his head. ‘A walk.’
‘Where?’
He stood there nonplussed for a moment as if he had not expected to get as far as such practical details. ‘There’s a footy match against Waterhouses in the park. We could walk in the park.’ Sam coughed and cleared his throat. Louie was just about to protest she hated watching football, but managed to stop herself.
‘I’d like that, Sam.’ She smiled. ‘Just give me a minute to get ready. Can I get you a cup of tea?’
‘No ta,’ he grunted. ‘I’ll stop outside.’
He was gone, and Louie flew upstairs to change into her Sunday dress and comb her hair. Sam Ritson had come to the house to see her - it must be a dream. He had certainly shown her more attention over these last few weeks since she had cut her hair, but they had not exchanged more than a few words with each other. She wondered if Mrs Parkin had spotted the visitor from her kitchen window. One thing was for certain, by the time they reached the top of the street, all the neighbours would know about it.
Out in the bright sunshine she found him leaning up against the yard gate watching the children playing in the lane. A group of boys had chalked out goal posts against the midden wall and he was shouting words of advice and encouragement. Louie could see creases of coal dust in the leathery lines of his neck, where much scrubbing had been to no avail. He turned and smiled awkwardly, his strong, square face seeming boyish with doubt. He’s as nervous as me, Louie thought with relief, and took charge of the situation.
‘Let’s walk down the dene, shall we? I’d like to see where they’re building the new council houses.’ She smiled.
‘If that’s what you’d like, Louie.’ Sam looked relieved that a decision had been taken.
They walked up the back lane, Louie instructing the skipping Sadie not to wander further than Holly Street.
‘What about the shop, Louie?’ Sadie asked.
‘It won’t be opening this afternoon.’ Sadie pulled a disappointed face. ‘If you’re good, I’ll make you some toffee anyways,’ Louie added quickly to avoid a protest.
They walked to the corner and turned into Holly Street and on up the hill till they passed the mine workshops and the gates to the pit yard. A clutch of old trucks rattled by on the makeshift tracks, taking away discarded stone from the screens. The gigantic caged-in wheel and gear of the Eleanor pithead loomed over them, panting and whirring in complaint. Beyond, a grey-black spoil heap sat like a suet pudding that had turned out wrong, misshapen and streaky. Louie was glad when they cleared the end of the fenced-in yard and left the pit and its coal heap behind.
‘Mary says there’s an evangelical mission coming to the Memorial Hall next week,’ Louie began, desperate to break the silence between them. ‘There’s some of them visiting gospel singers going to be there. Mary says they’ve got smashin’ voices. Will you be going, Sam?’
‘Me?’ He sounded shocked. ‘You won’t catch me at one of Mary’s religious meetings.’
‘Oh.’ Louie realised she had said the wrong thing.
‘Last year she joined the Salvation Army,’ Sam continued, unaware of Louie’s embarrassment. ‘Now she’s going evangelical.’
‘You’re not religious then?’ Louie ventured, remembering the rumours that Sam was a Communist.
‘Religion is the opium of the people,’ he announced. ‘The establishment use it to keep working men in their place, Louie. They promise a glorious afterlife instead of making things better for the working man in this one.’ Louie looked at him doubtfully. Her father would not approve of Sam if he talked like that about the Methodists.
‘But you do believe in an afterlife, don’t you, Sam?’ Louie asked anxiously. ‘It says so in the Scriptures; you must believe what the Bible tells you, surely?’ He stopped and gave her a quizzical look from his brown eyes, then tugged at his clean-shaven upper lip. ‘I believe in an afterlife, any roads.’ Louie held his look defiantly. ‘And I’ll not hear a word said against the Methodists, so there’s an end of it.’
Unexpectedly Sam laughed. He raised his cap, scratched his head and wedged his cap back on more firmly.
‘Not a word against the Methodists,’ Sam agreed, still chuckling. Louie did not see that there was anything funny about such matters but it was better than the serious Sam of moments before. They continued their circular walk through the back streets of Whitton Grange, the terraces gradually thinning until finally giv
ing way to an unkempt copse of trees and the dene itself.
The bushes and trees had broken into the vibrant emerald green of early summer and in sheltered spots a carpet of violet bluebells was unfolding underfoot. They walked a rigid foot apart from each other, until the path narrowed and Louie went ahead. By the time they emerged on to the railway line and the path that led round to the village green and the new council houses, they had exhausted all conversation about their families, their neighbours and the price of tea.
Louie was about to tell Sam of Davie’s trip into Durham to see the 3.45 performance of The Prisoner of Zenda, but thought that he would probably disapprove. He appeared to disapprove of Davie altogether. Sam’s idea of entertainment seemed to be a night at a political meeting or delivering speeches over a pint to his comrades, Louie thought glumly.
‘Aren’t they big,’ Louie gasped as she saw the new houses. There were only six, standing two by two, with a large area of ground cleared between them and the railway line for several more.
The building’s stopped now, though,’ Sam sighed. ‘The council say they can’t afford to build any more just yet. Here we have the first Labour Government in our history and we still don’t have the right to a roof over our heads. Our Bel got married last year but she and Johnny Pearson are having to share a two-roomed cottage with Johnny’s parents, his two sisters and brother. It’s not decent.’
Louie remembered Bel from school with admiration. She was two years older than Louie and had the same brown eyes as Sam. But Bel was always laughing; Hilda had once described her as all bubbly like lemonade.
‘And Bel’s expecting in August,’ Sam added. Louie felt uncomfortable with talk of marriage and babies.
‘Can’t they rent one of these houses from the council?’ she asked.
‘There’s a waiting list as long as my arm,’ Sam grunted. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she came back home once the baby’s born, not that we’ll have room to spare.’
Louie sighed and turned to look at the large redbrick houses across the railway line, sitting in grand isolation with the sweep of hillside beyond and the thick woods of Highfell Common behind. These were the homes of the well-to-do of Whitton Grange; the colliery manager, the agent, the doctor and the vicar, Reverend Hodgson. Louie had never been inside any of these houses, though Margaret Slattery, sister to her friend Minnie, was housemaid at Dr Joice’s. According to Margaret they rattled around in the eight-bedroomed house and although they used only a third of the rooms, all of them had to be kept clean in case they had visitors. Imagine a widower and his spinster daughter taking up all that space when there were people like Bel who would have been grateful for a single room in such a place! Sam was right to be angry. But that was the way things were, Louie thought with resignation, and complaining about it would get them nowhere.
‘Isn’t that your Hilda?’ Sam startled Louie out of her thoughts.
‘Where?’ He pointed across at the big houses.
‘Coming out of the doctor’s house,’ Sam persisted. ‘I’m sure it was your Hilda.’
Louie caught a flash of straw-coloured hair and blue skirt dashing away from the large dark-green front door of Dr Joice’s house, and then she was gone. Sam was right, but it would not do to say so; he would want to know why her sister had been hobnobbing with the middle classes.
‘Can’t be our Hilda,’ Louie replied lightly. ‘She’s up at the allotment helping Eb and John. Been there all afternoon.’ She slid Sam a look. She knew he did not believe her; he was certain of what he had seen. For a moment she was tempted to confide in him about Hilda’s passion for books and how she hid them at the allotment. Her sister was obviously growing bolder and calling on Miss Joice at home for her reading matter. But she was not sure of Sam yet. He was a radical when it came to pitmen and the working-class struggle, but what did he think about girls like Hilda getting an education in literature and the like?
‘Let’s go and see the end of the footy match.’ Louie gave him a sly smile and touched his arm briefly. Sam grinned in agreement, though he did not return the gesture. Walking a foot apart they made their way across the village green to the park gates.
Hilda was dismayed to find John helping Eb in the allotment. He was tying strips of newspaper to the canes supporting the runner beans, to warn off the greedy birds. She quickly dumped her bag of books in the shed, resisting the urge to flip through the titles of her new haul.
‘Can I help?’ she asked before John questioned her parcel.
‘No, we’re nearly done,’ Eb answered with a wink. He ran the back of his hand across his balding head. ‘By, it’s warm in this sun.’
‘I’ll get you some water from the burn,’ Hilda volunteered.
‘There’s still some cold tea in the flask, Hildy, fetch that instead,’ Eb replied.
‘I thought you were going to help us all afternoon.’ John’s blond head shot up and his bright-blue eyes looked accusing. She hoped he was not going to lose his temper over her truancy.
‘Sorry.’ She looked contrite. ‘I had an errand to run.’
‘Who for?’ John straightened up and put his hands on his hips.
‘Louie, of course,’ Hilda lied, crossing her fingers behind her back. ‘I’ll get you some tea.’
To her relief John did not stay long. ‘See you at the club later?’ he asked Eb as he went.
‘No, I’ve got band practice tonight.’ They both knew that on Eb’s reduced wages he could not afford to drink on a Saturday night, but it was John’s way of saying he would stand him a pint if he wanted one.
‘So what have you got for me today, Hildy?’ Eb demanded when their brother was out of earshot.
‘Mrs Reginald’s books!’ Hilda could not suppress her excitement any longer. She pulled a parcel out of her string bag. The books were neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Hilda fumbled with the knots.
‘Let me,’ Eb grinned at her impatience. ‘You’re all fingers and thumbs.’
He undid the ties and folded back the paper to reveal four volumes. Two were novels, one by Somerset Maugham, the other by Arnold Bennett. There was a play by George Bernard Shaw and a collection of poems by Wilfred Owen. Hilda picked up this last one and began to read out the introduction by someone called Siegfried Sassoon. It was at once obvious that they were poems about the recent war.
‘I don’t want to hear any more,’ Eb said abruptly. He turned his back and began clearing away his tools.
‘But you were there, Eb.’ Hilda was surprised by his sharp tone.
‘Yes, Hilda, I was there and I don’t need some dead poet to remind me what it was like. Put your books away,’ he ordered. ‘I don’t know what that Seward woman is thinking of lending you books like that.’
‘Sorry, Eb.’ Hilda’s enthusiasm for her new books was dashed. She wrapped the brown paper around them once more and hid them behind the seedling boxes with Eb’s sketches.
Eleanor had thoroughly enjoyed the past month with Beatrice and Will. On the spur of the moment they had persuaded her to join them on their visit to her mother’s relations in the north-west of Scotland. With Reginald’s grudging permission she had packed two modest suitcases and they had all crammed into Will’s Model T Ford and headed north, Beatrice sending a trunkload of clothes ahead by train. The MacKenzies had given them splendid hospitality in their rambling country house with its breathtaking views over the Kyle to Skye. They had hiked across the moors in the spring sunshine and been drenched in squalls that whipped off the sea; they had spent cosy evenings by a roaring log fire playing cards and charades with their cousins after gargantuan meals in the draughty dining hall by candlelight. Will had been garrulous with praise and wonder at the Highland hospitality, though he found the temperature in his bedroom ‘icier than the rocks in a White Lady’, as he put it.
Now they were returning home and Eleanor was feeling gloomy at the thought of Beatrice and Will leaving The Grange. They sat in silence, Beatrice dozing in the front
, Will yawning at the wheel.
‘Reggie will be pleased to see you after all this time,’ Will said softly. ‘I sure would be.’
‘I doubt it,’ Eleanor answered wearily and then regretted the disloyalty. Will threw her a look over his shoulder, but said nothing. They had grown close during the holiday; Eleanor found him attractive and she knew he liked her, but she would never hurt Beatrice by flirting with one of her boyfriends just because she was bored with Reginald. In her opinion, men were an unnecessary complication in life. Nevertheless, the holiday had left her feeling discontented and restless.
They were reaching the outskirts of Durham and the silhouette of the Norman cathedral shimmered before them in the twilight, like a ship launched into the sunset.
‘Are we nearly home?’ Beatrice asked sleepily.
‘This is Durham, Bea honey,’ Will announced. ‘Shall we stop for something to eat?’
‘No, let’s just get home.’ Beatrice sounded petulant and Eleanor wondered if she had been awake all the time. She directed Will through the narrow streets and up the hill that took them south and west back to Whitton Grange. Eleanor’s heart sank with each mile they sped nearer to Reginald.
‘You’re a canny lass, Iris,’ Davie sighed, and stretched in the long grass. Below them on the riverbank an animal scavenged in the undergrowth. She lay quite still next to him, her breathing still fast, but said nothing. ‘Are you happy?’ He leaned over her on one elbow, a look of quick concern on his fair face.
‘S’pose I am,’ Iris whispered, listening to the sounds of evening. The cathedral clock was chiming languidly, and a rowing boat slipped quickly past with a man racing it along the towpath, shouting instructions through a loud-hailer. She was content. Ramon Novarro had been wonderful, the whole afternoon in that palace of make-believe and dreams had been wonderful. Even the bag of chips and Davie’s compliments had seemed romantic after such a day, so she had given herself up to his kisses and caresses. Now Davie was her man and she had enjoyed it all more than she had expected.
Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills Page 6
