The audience jumped to its feet, the applause and shouts of agreement deafening. The young man had spoken without a note or sign of hesitation. As Eleanor watched him step back, it came to her that she had seen him before, at the Kirkups’ house; he was Louie’s young man. Eb had told her Louie was being courted by a political hothead called Sam Ritson. Feeling suddenly exposed, as if his brown eyes had focused their scorn on her all along, she withdrew and headed thankfully upstairs. She was sure he had not seen her, but her heart pounded fearfully even so.
He was filled with a conviction of the justness of his cause that Eleanor recognised; it emanated from his thick hands and his strong voice. Years ago, as a very young woman, she had felt just such a calling, one that had led to her involvement with the suffrage movement. She sat down, her hands still shaking and thought of her father and Reginald moving towards confrontation with this pitman. God help them, she thought, the image of Ritson’s uncompromising face imprinted in her mind.
Louie clapped enthusiastically with the others, a surge of pride bubbling through her at the thought of how well her Sam had been received. At that moment she felt she would follow him anywhere, do anything he asked of her. He was going to be a great leader of then-people, perhaps an important official in the Durham Miners’ Association or even a Labour MP in time. And she, Louisa Frances Kirkup, would be beside him, championing his cause. She experienced a twinge of shame that her head had been so turned by a visit from Mrs Seward-Scott. Sam was right. The people in the big house were all the same; they did not care about the pitmen who worked for them, or the poverty their families had to endure. Stirred by Sam’s speech Louie vowed never to betray her own folk.
For a while she and Mary hung about below the stage, but Louie could see Sam was too engrossed talking with the officials. No doubt they would adjourn to the club for further discussion and she would not see him again that evening. She turned to leave the hall and saw Hilda pushing her way towards her against the flow of the crowd. Her younger sister’s face was puckered with breathless anxiety.
‘What is it, Hildy?’ she asked alarmed.
‘Louie, you’ve got to come,’ Hilda gasped. ‘Quickly, Louie!’
‘What’s happened? Is it Mam?’ Louie took hold of her sister’s skinny arm and shook her.
Hilda gulped for air and then panted out her message. ‘It’s Iris, she’s started. Mam sent me for Clara Dobson, but I can’t find her. You’ll have to help, Louie.’ Louie stood dumbstruck for a few seconds. Iris’s baby was coming at last.
‘But-’ Louie stuttered.
‘Come on, Louie, she’s screaming the house down!’ Hilda pulled her sister after her, ignoring Mary’s gasps of surprise.
Outside it was raining hard again and by the time they reached Hawthorn Street both sisters were soaked through to their underclothes. They clattered through the back door and found their mother attending to Iris on the spare bed, that had been pulled out of its press. Iris was half propped up, with towels about and beneath her. Her face was contorted in a spasm of pain. She cried out as she caught sight of the girls and Louie’s stomach lurched in fear.
‘Come here, Louie, and bathe her face.’ Fanny spoke calmly and beckoned her daughter with a frail hand. Louie pulled herself together, and, sitting on the chair next to the bed, dipped a flannel in cold water and wiped the sweat from her sister-in-law’s brow. Her face was red, the auburn hair damp and stuck to her temples.
‘I can’t bear it!’ Iris shouted, and writhed as a new contraction took hold of her body. Louie made quiet, comforting noises as she wiped Iris’s face. She looked questioningly at her mother.
‘She started just after you left,’ Fanny explained. ‘The contractions are getting stronger now, but it could be hours yet.’ Louie gulped in horror. She had never attended a birth before, she had always been considered too young and shooed away with the other curious children. Clara Dobson, the local midwife, had delivered all of Fanny Kirkup’s children and borne four daughters of her own, and Louie prayed that the bustling, no-nonsense Mrs Dobson would arrive soon. The thought of herself and her mother having to deliver Iris’s baby alone filled her with dread.
Hilda left swiftly to go and serve a late supper at Greenbrae, relieved to escape from the hot kitchen and the sounds of Iris in labour. John was despatched without ceremony to his night shift and Sadie was told to stay in bed upstairs. A while later, Davie, Eb and their father returned from the meeting, but were sharply banished to wait next door at the Parkins’. Davie protested that he could wait in the parlour, but his mother would have none of it.
‘I’ve told Edie to get the pot warmed, she’s expecting you.’ Fanny was adamant. ‘We’ll send word when there’s anything to tell.’ Louie looked admiringly at her mother; she was so sallow and old about the eyes, but her voice had taken on its former air of quiet authority. She felt encouraged by her presence.
The hours stretched on interminably, but Iris’s waters did not break. At one point she dozed off in a faint of fatigue, and Louie found a strange wave of pity sweep over her at the sight of Iris’s flushed, vulnerable face. She sat holding her clammy hand while Fanny moved slowly about the room, preparing for the baby’s arrival.
Finally word was brought by Susan Dobson that her mother had gone to visit a sister in Durham and would be away for the night. Louie’s heart jumped in panic.
‘Shall we send for Dr Joice, Mam?’ she almost pleaded. Her mother was silent for a moment, then shook her head.
‘We’ll manage,’ she answered. ‘Dr Joice is entertaining. There’s no need to bother him if we don’t have to. We women can manage on our own, unless there’s any complications.’ Louie could not bring herself to ask what complications there might be, her mind filling with ghastly imaginings.
Shortly after four in the morning, there was a gush of fluid from Iris’s womb and the labour proper began. They were all worn down with tiredness and nervous anticipation, but gently Fanny encouraged Iris through the severe contractions that left her racked and weeping. Louie lost her fear as her whole being concentrated on the job of helping to bring the baby safely through the traumatic pangs of birth.
This time, when you feel the spasm come, push hard!’ Fanny urged. Iris clenched Louie’s arm and shrieked like a madwoman. ‘Again,’ Fanny coaxed, ‘push, push!’
‘No!’ Iris screamed, and lay back panting.
Louie felt a calm determination settle on her as she helped support her sister-in-law in a half-crouched position. Engulfed by a warm protectiveness towards them, she would do everything she could to bring Iris and her baby through this agony to safety.
The baby’s on its way, Iris.’ She talked gently. ‘Don’t fight it. Try again, we’ll help you.’
Iris focused frightened, dilated eyes on Louie and clutched her free hand. ‘Oh God, I’m scared, Louie,’ she whispered.
As the labour seized Iris’s body again, Louie and her mother together encouraged the terrified girl through the pain.
The head’s appearing,’ Fanny announced with an edge of relief in her voice, as Iris sank back once more. Louie leaned over and looked between Iris’s shaking legs. Strangely, she no longer felt disgust at the mess or the young woman’s nakedness, only an excited wonder at the sight of a new being thrusting itself out into the world.
‘It’s got hair,’ Louie cried in amazement. ‘Haway, Iris, and push again!’
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed five, and a few minutes later, in a cacophony of shouts from Louie and her mother and yells from Iris, the baby emerged.
‘It’s a boy, Iris,’ Louie told her, her eyes shining with emotion. Iris sank back with a grunt and closed her eyes.
Under instruction from her mother, Louie lifted the slippery, bloodied scrap of human life on to a clean sheet and wrapped him up loosely. As she placed him gently in Iris’s arms, the baby gave out a small bleat.
‘I think he’s hungry.’ Fanny smiled.
‘What are you going to call him, I
ris?’ Louie asked, finding it hard to hold back the tears of relief and joy.
‘Raymond,’ Iris answered simply, looking curiously at the tiny bundle. ‘After Ramon Novarro.’
Louie looked at her in disbelief. ‘You can’t call a bairn after a film star! What does Davie think - ?’
‘Leave her be.’ Her mother put a hand on Louie’s shoulder and squeezed it affectionately. ‘I’ll bathe him and then you should try and feed him, Iris pet. After that you must get some rest.’
‘I just want to sleep,’ Iris protested.
‘I’ll go and tell our Davie.’ Louie’s face glowed with pride at what they had achieved.
‘Yes, pet.’ Fanny gave her a warm, tired smile that told her she had done well.
Louie arched her back to release its stiffness and reached for her coat which had been drying by the fire. As she opened the back door to leave, Iris called, ‘Thanks, Louie. You’re a canny sister to me.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Louie replied, embarrassed, and turned away quickly.
But as she ran next door to break the good news to Davie and the men, the emotion that was choking her throat rose up and overwhelmed her. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she sobbed out loud in the dark of the cold March morning.
Chapter Eight
The following morning, Eleanor drove Marie Stopes to the station in Durham and put her on the early train south. Marie did not want to spend any more time than was necessary away from her work, her clinic and her new baby. The meeting at Whitton Grange had been a moderate success, with the younger women showing interest in new ideas in child health and family planning. Dr Stopes had given Eleanor much to think about in developing her project for a local clinic. As she swung her green Austin Seven down the steep hill away from the city and back towards Whitton Grange, Eleanor resolved to speak to Dr Joice about it at the earliest opportunity.
Talk of babies made her feel uncomfortable, and she preferred to think of birth control in the clinical context of general family health and helping to eradicate the overcrowding and poverty of the pit villages. But last night, as if to spite her, Hilda had come breathless to Greenbrae with the news that Iris’s baby was on its way. Eleanor wondered if it was a girl or a boy. She would send a present for it; she still felt guilty about Davie’s accident the previous summer.
As she pulled up in the drive outside The Grange, a splash of white and purple crocuses waved their welcome. Suffragist colours, Eleanor thought with pleasure, and her spirits lifted at this natural sign of rebirth and the promise of spring. The hardy bright flowers gave her the courage to confront Reginald about something that had been gnawing at her conscience since the previous evening. She found him in his study, alone.
‘Has your visitor gone?’ Reginald asked, glancing up from the papers strewn across his desk in the bay window. It irked Eleanor that he did not refer to Marie by name.
‘Yes,’ she answered, advancing into the room. ‘Marie was sorry to miss you at breakfast - and at tea yesterday. You could have made the effort to be around for just one meal, Reggie.’
‘You know I’m busy, Eleanor.’ He gave her a dismissive look. ‘And I’m expecting Hopkinson any moment.’ She knew this. She had seen the agent’s car pulling up at the front of the house just after she had arrived home. She had asked the butler, Laws, to make him wait in the drawing room for ten minutes. Reginald valued his mines’ agent for his blunt speech and frugal economics in managing the pits, but Eleanor disliked his abrupt manner and the coldness of his shrewd grey eyes. It gave her a perverse pleasure to think of him impatiently pacing the Persian carpet in the downstairs room while his time ticked on like a meter.
‘I heard some of the union meeting in the co-operative hall last night,’ she plunged in, knowing how to gain his attention. Her husband’s head of wavy brown hair jerked up in surprise. ‘I popped in during the interval in Marie’s talk.’ She waited.
‘And what did you hear?’ Reginald asked cautiously, his light-brown eyes searching her face for clues.
‘Words that shocked,’ she answered carefully, going to the mantelpiece and reaching for a brass Indian ashtray. She deliberately took her time lighting up a cigarette. Tipping back her cropped head of hair she blew smoke at the new electric light fitting.
‘That doesn’t surprise me.’ Reginald followed her movements with irritation. ‘I told your father it was a meeting of damn Communists, but he wouldn’t listen. He takes less and less interest in the affairs going on under his nose. It’s just as well I’m de facto manager around here, or goodness knows what state we’d be in.’
‘So it’s you and not my father who’s responsible for the squalid conditions in the village?’ Eleanor rounded on him. ‘They’re living like animals in those slums you call houses. I was shocked by what I heard. I thought the speaker was exaggerating, so I asked Isobel’s father. There was no exaggeration.’ She challenged him with her dark eyes. ‘They have to cross a muddy lane just to answer the call of nature, and even then it’s just to an open earthen sewer. Disease spreads among them like wildfire, half the children are malnourished. And apparently the men aren’t even taking home a living wage to keep hunger from the door.’
Reginald looked at her unmoved. ‘I haven’t time for one of your hysterical speeches now, my dear. Things are better now than they were under your grandfather or your Seward ancestors before them, did Dr Joice tell you that? No, he wouldn’t - he’s got Socialist tendencies himself, for all his talk about “Good Queen Victoria’s Day”. But I’m surprised, Eleanor, that you’ve been taken in by the rantings of some grubby Bolshevik. Who was he, by the way?’
Eleanor laughed harshly. ‘I really have no idea.’ She was not going to let slip Sam Ritson’s name, just so Hopkinson could persecute him.
‘No matter.’ Reginald bent over his papers again, as if her information was inconsequential. ‘I’ll find out soon enough.’
Eleanor could see she would get nowhere by moralising at him. After all, she was just as guilty for allowing such conditions to exist; they were plain to see if she had but opened her eyes.
‘Are you going to close the Eleanor or Beatrice, Reggie?’ she asked him directly. ‘I have a right to know. Dr Joice tells me five of the Seward pits have already closed in the past year.’
He stood up suddenly, glared at her and then turned to stare out of the window. His hands were locked tightly behind his back as he spoke.
‘Those other pits were worked out,’ he answered tightly. ‘Hopkinson and I are doing our damnedest to keep the Whitton Grange pits open. Costs are rising all the time and productivity is not. We’ve lost valuable markets abroad to France and Germany and even the Americans. The price of coal we were getting overseas has consequently fallen. Durham coal has a valuable market in Scandinavia, but now the Poles are undercutting us.’ He turned and confronted her, his face hard. ‘What your precious miners can’t understand is that we have to compete to survive, and to survive we must make economies.’
‘By cutting their wages instead of our profits?’ Eleanor accused body. His jaw tensed as he struggled to control his anger.
‘Most of them can see the sense in what we are proposing, but there are a few reds - agitators - who want to see us fail, because all they are interested in is bloody revolution. Make no mistake, such men want to see the end of our British way of life - of people like you and me, Eleanor. They won’t thank you for championing their cause. What happened in Russia can happen here.’ He waited for her to interrupt him, but when she said nothing, he smiled briefly and untensed his hands.
‘I’m not an ogre, Eleanor, and neither was your father or grandfather before me. We provide these people with free housing and gifts of coal. We pay for their funerals if there’s an accident at the pit. We pay them wages we can realistically afford. Our hands are tied by what the market dictates, my dear. And we are providing valuable jobs for these men. Think of the poverty there would be if there were no mines on our estate. Trust me to look after
your interests best, Eleanor,’ he swept his hand over the papers before him, ‘and the interests of the miners.’
She looked at him bleakly. How could she begin to argue with him about things whose importance she was only beginning to grasp? She had a gut reaction that in his explanation moral values had been turned on their heads. But she could not put what she felt into words; she did not have the arguments at her fingertips as he did. As usual, her husband had got the better of her. He had spun a plausible story and bound her up in his words.
Reginald was already seated at his desk again, once more immersed in his papers. She stubbed out her cigarette in frustration and marched from the room. If she had glanced back for an instant, she would have been surprised by the look of uncertainty on Reginald’s face as he watched her brittle body turn from him in defiance.
Louie was thrilled that she had been asked by Davie and Iris to be baby Raymond’s godmother. He was less than a month old now, but Louie found it hard to remember a time when he had not been around, so familiar was his tremulous cry when he was hungry, his serious frown of concentration when he sucked from his bottle in her arms. Iris would not feed him herself; she was only concerned with regaining the shapely curves of her former figure, and Fanny helped her wrap a sheet tightly about her stomach each day to force her sagging belly back into shape.
‘Oh, if only I could go out,’ Iris sighed in frustration, gazing longingly through the net curtains of the parlour. She and Davie had moved into this room with the baby until they found their own home, while Fanny and Jacob now slept upstairs. Hilda had removed to the spare bed, which Louie shared with her for a few hours a night.
‘You know you mustn’t go out until you’ve been churched and the baby christened,’ Louie answered firmly, rocking Raymond gently in his crib. ‘And don’t let in the light, Iris, it’ll hurt the baby’s eyes.’
Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills Page 12
