Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘You gave me a fright too,’ Eleanor gasped, her heart thudding. ‘I didn’t think anyone was here.’

  ‘I like sitting here at this time,’ Eb replied. ‘“Each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds”,’ he quoted softly. Grateful that he didn’t question her presence there, Eleanor followed his gaze over the field of corn, smouldering orange in the sunset. The trees behind them were already swathed in darkness like widows’ robes.

  ‘I hoped you’d be here,’ she whispered, not knowing from where she got the courage to say so. He turned and studied her face, lit by the red light, the dark eyes unsure. Strange how he had been thinking of her when he had strolled up from the dene, whistling back at the sleepy chatter of the birds. He turned from her and pointed to the lip of the hillside.

  ‘If you walk out-by, you can see the sun setting in Weardale. It’s a bonny sight.’

  ‘Yes,’ Eleanor agreed, letting go the breath she had held in check, ‘I’d like that.’ As they walked together, an intimate silence fell about them that neither felt the need to disturb.

  Chapter Seven

  Eleanor continued her country walks to Whitton Woods throughout the late summer and on into the autumn. In October, Eb Kirkup was laid off at the Eleanor pit and spent the shortening days working the allotment. She would go on the pretext of leaving books for Hilda, but she only appeared if the other gardens were empty, knowing Eb would be there in all weathers. Sometimes she would look for him sketching up on the hill and they would talk together, as the trees around them turned rusty gold and the garden fires of damp leaves sent up pungent smoke signals to the cobalt-blue sky. Eb was diffident towards her and she sensed a reserve between them, but in a strange way his link with her brother was a bond and she felt more at peace in his company than with any other man she knew. She became physically stronger and could walk for several miles without the aid of her stick. With the return of an appetite for life, she allowed herself to eat again without the self-disgust she had been experiencing. If Reginald had not spent so much time hunting and dining with the Fishers over at Waterloo Bridge, he might have noticed the subtle changes in her. As it was, he no longer seemed to care. When he was at home, he spent the time closeted with her father and the mines’ agent in his study, worrying over shrinking profits.

  Eleanor turned a deaf ear to her estates’ business problems; she had never been encouraged to get involved and so she did not. She much preferred to spend her mornings wandering the countryside and her afternoons drinking tea by a roaring fire with her friend Isobel.

  Then December came and with it the argument with Eb that choked the sprouting of their tentative friendship. It was just before Christmas and the schools were breaking up for the holidays. Hilda was about to leave the classroom for the last time.

  ‘I would like to pay for Hilda to stay on at school,’ she announced, watching Eb’s pencil strokes shaping into a boastful robin. Momentarily he stopped, shooting her a surprised look, and then resumed his careful caricature. ‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot,’ she continued, encouraged by his listening, ‘and I’ve talked it through with Isobel Joice. She would be more than happy to teach Hilda up to certificate level. Do you think your parents would agree, Eb?’

  ‘No,’ he answered firmly without looking up.

  ‘Why?’ Eleanor felt deflated.

  ‘Hilda will have to find a job, that’s why.’ Eb put down his pencil. ‘I’m out of work, Davie and my father are on short time. Only John is bringing in anything like a wage to our house, and he’s on the minimum. Iris is about to have a baby and my mam needs medicines for her chest. Do you need any other reasons, Mrs Seward-Scott?’

  Eleanor hated it when he addressed her formally with that edge of mockery in his voice. At times he could be irritatingly stubborn.

  ‘But it’s so short-sighted.’ She dismissed his excuses. ‘Hilda could get far superior employment once she has some qualifications. Your father should be proud of her talents, not embarrassed by them. If she was a boy he’d let her stay on at school, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘If she was a boy she’d be out looking for work like the rest of the school leavers.’ Eb stood up angrily. ‘The pits are not taking them on, so they’re scavenging for farm work or selling bags of coal or anything for a few pence. Aye, they’re not above stealing mistletoe from under the nose of your gamekeeper just so they can buy a few treats for Christmas. It’s not a matter of superior employment as you call it - it’s a choice of odd jobs or no job at all.’

  ‘Well, I’d still like to hear your father’s opinion,’ Eleanor replied, feeling the argument slipping away from her. ‘I intend to call on him tomorrow evening.’ Suddenly Eb whipped round and caught her by the elbow.

  ‘Don’t you go interfering, Mrs Reginald.’ He spoke with quiet menace. ‘We don’t want charity from any of you Sewards. We’ve lived without it so far and we’ll get by on our own wits.’ She gawped at him in astonishment. Self-consciously, he dropped his hold on her. ‘Aye, and it might be better if you don’t come visiting here again.’

  Eleanor felt herself redden at his blunt rebuff. ‘I know what this is all about,’ she retorted. ‘Your stupid pitman pride. You think I’m playing Lady Bountiful and you won’t have any of it. Well, it’s Hilda who will be the loser, not me or you, Eb Kirkup. Just remember that when she’s scrubbing someone else’s doorstep for the rest of her life!’

  Eleanor pulled her fur-trimmed coat about her in the frosty air and left, tossing a bag of small Christmas gifts on to the wheelbarrow as she went. But she did not go to confront Jacob Kirkup about his daughter’s education, and she did not go back to visit the allotment.

  Beatrice came home, bringing with her a young fair-haired Scots officer, Captain Sandy Mackintosh, whom she had met at the Highland Balls the previous September. He stayed over Christmas and then took her younger sister north for the New Year celebrations. Eleanor had thrown herself into the festive arrangements, holding a party on Christmas Eve for thirty neighbours and friends. To please Reginald she even invited the Fishers who turned up in their white Rolls-Royce and talked several decibels louder than the rest of the guests. But by New Year, she was glad to have a nightcap in the library with just her father for company, while Reginald went out to the Fishers’ fancy-dress party got up as a sheikh. They quietly toasted the portrait of her mother Constance who looked down on them from above the mantelpiece with a quizzical smile. Then with 1925 acknowledged, Eleanor went to bed.

  In January, Isobel’s maid Margaret Slattery left to marry Joseph Gallon, a young pitman, and at Eleanor’s suggestion, her friend employed Hilda. She was not the most efficient of domestics but she was lively company to have about the house, and Isobel allowed her to dip into her collection of books when off duty. Eleanor felt a flush of triumph that Hilda’s education was still continuing, albeit in a diluted form. Eleanor had one other suggestion to make to her old friend as the first early snowdrops appeared from the soggy black earth.

  ‘You need a gardener, Isobel,’ she said decisively. ‘Your father is far too busy to keep a controlling hand on all this.’ She waved her hand expansively over the view from the French windows.

  ‘I suppose you have someone in mind,’ Isobel replied knowingly.

  ‘As a matter of fact I do. Eb Kirkup seems to have green fingers, from what I can gather,’ Eleanor replied lightly, not daring to meet her friend’s curious look. ‘And Hilda says he is still without proper work.’

  ‘I’ll see what Papa has to say.’ Isobel made no promises. ‘He may well be glad of the assistance. It really is a full-time job, I suppose.’ Isobel guessed from Eleanor’s casual comments that she had formed some kind of relationship with Hilda’s older brother and was wary of encouraging it. Still, she trusted Eleanor not to do anything foolish, and they really could do with a gardener. Eb came to work for Dr Joice in the middle of February.

  Louie lifted the hot coal out of the fire with the pincers and dropped it into the iron. About her on the bras
s fire rail hung pressed shirts and sheets; in the warming oven the men’s trousers were airing. With the incessant rain of the past week, the kitchen had been strewn with wet washing for two days, and only now was she able to tackle the ironing. She hit the final tea towels with a monotonous thud, the noise dulled by the old blanket on the wooden table that did for an ironing board.

  Iris sat with her feet propped up on the cracket, Sadie’s stool that normally stood by the fireside. She was listening through headphones to the crackling wireless that she had brought from Durham, and singing along to tunes Louie could not hear. Fanny, whose chest had given her a wheezing cough all winter, sat unravelling old stockings to knit up again. Even she had begun to lose patience with Iris’s baby, who showed no signs of wanting to come into the world. It was the beginning of March and they had been holding their breath for a month.

  ‘Who’d want to be born when the weather’s like this?’ Iris laughed and carried on singing. ‘My bairn will be born when the sun’s shining.’

  Louie humphed and clattered the iron on to its stand. She refrained from saying that the baby appeared to be as lazy as its mother and would probably have to be coaxed out with chocolate or a trip to the picture house. She glanced enviously at Iris’s huge pregnant bump and her contented pink face. Her auburn hair was luxurious, although Iris complained it was growing too long. Louie admired the dramatic way her sister-in-law stood, hands supporting her back, and moved, like a stately overweight queen, making sure everyone knew what an effort walking was for her these days. They had made sure Iris had not gone without nourishing food for the eight months she had been with them.

  ‘That baby’s overfed and doesn’t want to come out,’ Louie had said to Sam recently. ‘I’ve given it a better start in life than if it had been my own.’ He had studied her for a moment and seen the longing in her eyes. He was content with Louie as his girl, but there were far more pressing concerns on his mind before he could commit himself to marriage. The pitmen of Whitton Grange would be fighting for their very survival if things got much worse. So he ignored Louie’s unspoken pleas.

  ‘Are you going to that talk at the store hall, Mam?’ Iris asked Fanny Kirkup, slipping off her headphones. Louie still felt a pang of jealousy when Davie’s wife used this endearment when talking to Fanny, instead of referring to her as Mrs Kirkup.

  The union meeting?’ Fanny answered, clearing her throat.

  ‘Not that one.’ Iris yawned. ‘The one about child rearing.’

  ‘It’s that Dr Stopes, Mam,’ Louie explained, ‘the one who wrote them books on - you know. Mrs Seward-Scott has arranged the lecture. Clara Dobson said she’s wanting to start up a clinic in Whitton Grange.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound natural to me.’ Her mother looked dubious. ‘And I don’t want you going, Louie, you’re not even engaged. Young lasses shouldn’t be listening to such things.’

  Louie was annoyed. She was a young woman now taking on all the responsibility of running the house, and if she had her way she would be married this year. It was only sensible that girls like her should get some education on marriage; she could not bring herself to use the word ‘sex’ even in her own mind. Her mother had never spoken of such things, so how was she going to know what to expect?

  ‘I’m going to listen to Sam tonight anyways,’ Louie said shortly. ‘He’s speaking after the man from the Miners’ Federation.’ She gave a smile of satisfaction at his importance.

  ‘I’d like to hear the lady doctor,’ Iris raised a slim hand to cover a theatrical yawn, ‘but I’m too tired to do anything these days.’ Her other hand rested protectively on her swollen belly. It was too late for her to learn about birth control, Louie wanted to say; she was proof of the need for a local clinic. But she bit back the words.

  Hilda came home after tea and said she would have to return to Greenbrae later in the evening as the Joices were entertaining Dr Stopes. Their father and Davie came home from the pit and with tired resignation said they were being laid off for the rest of the week. This set off a bout of coughing from Fanny, whose face crumpled into worry. When Eb also returned from Greenbrae and Sadie came in from playing under the gas lamp in the street, the house felt as if it would crack at the corners from the crush of people. The foul odour of pit clothes and damp bodies hung in the fusty air like ghostly washing.

  A squabble broke out between Davie and John when Louie prepared John’s tea first, as he wanted to get some rest before the night shift started. The brothers hardly spoke to each other these days unless it was to quarrel, Louie thought wearily. Several days of the whole family around the house with nothing to do was going to be purgatory. So it was with relief that she escaped out into the drizzle of the cold, damp March evening to go to Sam’s meeting. It was being organised by local members of the Labour Party and the union lodge, and they had hired the main store hall, expecting a large turnout for their guest speaker from the Miners’ Federation of Great Britain. In the room above, wives of the pitmen were drawn out of curiosity to the meeting of the Women’s Co-operative Guild where the celebrated Dr Stopes was about to lecture. Louie glanced wistfully at the married women who chattered expectantly as they took the stairs, then made her way into the hall.

  Sam barely had time to speak to Louie, so she settled into a seat near the front, next to his sister Mary, who had also come to support him. By eight o’clock the hall was full and latecomers had to stand at the back. Sam Ritson was beginning to attract attention as a forceful speaker, and his reputation was spreading outside the pit gates. He was becoming more than just a spokesman for the disputes of his group of face workers, and many had come to hear what he, rather than the official from the national organisation, had to say.

  Louie fidgeted while the guest speaker urged them to stick together with miners from the other areas, so that together they could negotiate from a position of strength. Her mind wandered to and fro like a fretful, broody hen. She thought of Iris’s baby and whether it would look like Davie; wondered if the store would extend their credit; itched to know what was being discussed by the women in the room upstairs. Even her friend Minnie Slattery had been allowed to go, because much to everyone’s surprise, she had got herself engaged to Bomber Bell. They appeared to enjoy arguing with each other so much they were going to formalise the rules of engagement. She would make Minnie tell her everything.

  Eleanor was pleased with the turnout for the lecture. Marie Stopes had shown a film entitled Maisie’s Marriage, which the women had watched attentively. Now they were having a break for a cup of tea before Dr Stopes answered their questions. Eleanor decided to slip out and see what was going on in the hall downstairs. She had heard Reginald complaining to her father that some rabble-rousers in the village were organising discontent by inviting a spokesman from the Miners’ Federation who was openly critical of the owners. He had wanted the local superintendent of police to send an observer to the meeting to note down any seditious speechmaking. Thomas Seward-Scott had told him he was getting things out of proportion and left to attend a musical in Newcastle with the Swainsons.

  The door to the downstairs hall was open because the press of people had spilled out into the corridor, so packed was the body of the room. Various officials dressed in their best suits sat on the stage on upright wooden chairs, a table in front of them. Standing up, left thumb crooked into his waistcoat pocket, and right forefinger prodding the air, was a man she recognised but could not place. He was dark, short and stocky, his head bare and his brown suit ill fitting. None of this mattered to the audience, who were listening avidly. Eleanor pressed forward to try and catch what he was saying. From the far end of the hall his flat voice carried without any effort.

  ‘… But they’ve shown us they cannot be trusted. They promised to build us more houses, but not one brick has been laid since before the War. Why should we have to live herded together like animals? Why shouldn’t our young ‘uns have a decent home to bring up their bairns? Why should our widows and orphans be e
victed when their men die in the pits the bosses won’t make safe?’ With each question he stabbed the air with his finger and his face grew more passionate. ‘The reason, comrades, is that the owners don’t care about the conditions we put up with, they don’t care about our safety, they don’t care that we can’t afford to keep our bairns healthy. They only care that there’s coal coming out of the ground!’

  Eleanor felt an uncomfortable prickle at the back of her neck and she glanced at her neighbours to see if they were aware of her identity. Everyone was concentrating on the speaker’s words.

  ‘And things are going to get worse not better,’ he predicted. ‘The bosses are blaming us for falling productivity. But we all know that the seams we’re working now are hard seams, they’re wet seams. The good coal in the Eleanor has been worked out. We’re crawling in gassy tunnels two foot high, in six niches of water. If the bosses spent a bit of their profits on better conditions and better transport below ground, they’d get better productivity. ‘Cos the pitmen are grafting just as hard as ever!’

  There was a cheer and clapping at this. Eleanor felt herself squirm at the accusations. She wanted to run from the man haranguing her but she could not stop listening. Could things really be as bad as he maintained or was he just out to make trouble as Reginald believed? She knew that Reginald was capable of being ruthless, but surely her father would not allow his men to work in such conditions.

  ‘I tell you this, comrades,’ his voice dropped level again, ‘we’ve seen none of the profits that we’ve made these past years. Instead we’ve seen thirty-eight pits close in County Durham alone since May of last year. But we’re not going to let them close down our pits. I’m telling you now, they’ll try and cut our wages and bring back district bargaining. They want to undermine our solidarity with our comrades in other areas. But we’re not going to let them get away with it! Ah1 we’re asking is a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work.’ His voice rose to a shout with his final battle cry. ‘It’s time we stood up to the Seward-Scotts of this world and showed them we can still fight, comrades!’