Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

‘Oh, I don’t care.’ Beatrice changed her mind. ‘It’ll be quite a laugh for Sandy to meet such vulgar people. He’ll be very diplomatic, of course, he’s a complete gentleman. How is Reggie, by the way?’

  Eleanor smoothed the rug with her hands as she answered. ‘Totally caught up in some secret committee. Something to do with organising supplies in an emergency - though emergency for what, I can’t think.’ Beatrice looked uninterested, and Eleanor had to confess to herself that she paid little attention to his activities unless they had a direct bearing on Whitton Grange. She tried to stay alert to any news that might affect Eb or his family, but apart from that she stayed out of her husband’s way.

  ‘So life at The Grange is as exciting as ever?’ Beatrice mocked.

  ‘Life here is just fine,’ Eleanor replied, her mouth twitching at the corners.

  ‘Oh?’ Beatrice tried to scrutinise her sister’s face in the gloom, alerted by something in her voice. ‘I thought you found life here tedious beyond words. That’s the impression I got when I was last home, anyway.’

  ‘You haven’t been home for months,’ Eleanor accused.

  ‘Come on, then.’ Beatrice’s curiosity was momentarily aroused. ‘Tell me what’s happened to change things. Have you got yourself a rich lover?’

  ‘Beatrice!’ Eleanor was scandalised by her sister’s bluntness in front of the chauffeur.

  ‘Oh, Sandford can’t hear us.’ She dismissed Eleanor’s warning gesture. ‘He’s as deaf as an old post. So tell me who he is and has he got pots of money? Gosh, I bet Reggie would revolve in his stuffy shirt if he suspected. Does he suspect?’

  ‘There’s nothing to suspect.’ Eleanor looked away out of the window, unnerved by her sister’s accuracy. She and Eb could hardly be called lovers. Since their first shattering kiss on Highfell last summer they had only snatched moments together, but their meetings were always laced with a delicious sense of clandestine rebellion.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Beatrice crowed at so easily getting at the truth. ‘I could tell there was something the minute I saw you. You look younger - your face looks plumper. I can tell a woman in love; you’re giving off a scent of lust like an expensive perfume.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Eleanor snorted with embarrassment. She could never tell Beatrice about Eb; her sister was a snob and would never understand. It saddened her to think she could not share her joy in Eb’s company with anyone close, except Isobel; only her friend knew how she felt.

  ‘Well, I think it’s about time,’ Beatrice commented. ‘Reggie was turning you into a bad-tempered old maid.’

  The following two days were filled with frantic preparations for Beatrice’s party. Mrs Robertson the housekeeper oversaw a rigorous polishing of the furniture, silver and brasses until the lofty rooms of The Grange sparkled in the crisp winter sunlight. Meanwhile Mrs Dennison, the cook, set her staff to the task of preparing a large buffet of soups, pies, winter salads, soufflés, game, cheeses and puddings. Laws, the butler, directed the preparation of enormous tureens of hot punch to be served on the guests’ arrival.

  Sandy Mackintosh arrived at midday on Christmas Eve and Beatrice clung to him possessively with girlish smiles, hanging her blonde head coyly as they went to confront her father in the library after lunch. Eleanor watched them go with amusement, feeling a stab of pity for the young fair-haired officer who seemed much too gentle and diffident to be a match for her self-willed sister.

  However, they all emerged smiling twenty minutes later. Eleanor thought her father’s enthusiastic reaction was an indication of real approval of his future son-in-law, verging on relief. He would have hated Beatrice to have married any number of her past boyfriends; he had been seriously worried when the American, Will Hector Bryce Junior, had shown himself keen to win Beatrice’s hand. Unlike many of the aristocracy who were looking to America for an injection of wealth and vitality into their fortunes, Thomas Seward-Scott was aggressively chauvinist.

  He patted Sandy on the back. ‘My dear Constance was Scottish,’ he declared. ‘Don’t mind the Scotch - you’re good fighters. And you’ll need to be strong to keep my Beatrice in check,’ he laughed.

  ‘Oh, Daddy, don’t be such a bore. It won’t be like that with Sandy and me - we’re madly in love, aren’t we, darling?’ She smiled up at her fresh-faced fiancé.

  ‘Beatrice has made me very happy, agreeing to be my wife,’ Sandy answered gallantly, enchanted by her forthrightness.

  ‘Good show.’ Thomas Seward-Scott clapped him on the back again then turned to go and search for Laws. ‘We’ll bring up some of the best champagne tonight to celebrate.’

  Davie sat by Louie’s fireside. He ran bony fingers through his stubbly hair and sighed. ‘Tell me what to do, Louie. I’m that mixed up inside, I can’t think.’

  Louie was finishing off icing some cupcakes she had prepared for the weekend. The trick was to prevent the icing running off, as she had rationed the sugar and watered down the icing to make it go further.

  ‘You know what I think.’ Louie straightened from her task. ‘You can’t think right ‘cos your head’s fuzzy with drinking all week. Why else has Da put you out the house until you sober up? You’ve only yourself to blame that Iris upped and left for home.’

  ‘Is that where you think she’s gone?’ Davie asked in a small voice.

  ‘Of course she has, where else would she go?’

  ‘I half worry—’ Davie stopped his conjectures. What if Iris had run off with some music-hall act or travelling players? He had always feared she might get sick of Whitton Grange one day and go off to be a singer somewhere. Louie was right. What had he done to try and make life bearable for her as a pitman’s wife? Nothing. The little money he had had, he had wasted on beer or chucked away on pitch and toss on the street corner after dark. Iris had been on at him to buy Raymond a coat or take her to the pictures, but he had not done either and now they were both gone. He might never see either of them again and the thought made the pain in his head start to throb again.

  Suddenly he felt Louie give him a sharp kick on his shin.

  ‘Ayaa, Louie man!’ he cried. ‘What was that for?’

  ‘Stop feeling sorry for yoursel’, Davie Kirkup.’ She stood back, hands on her hips. ‘You love that lass and that bairn. You may deserve Iris, but you don’t deserve that happy little lad. Well, if you want them, go after them and fetch them back,’ Louie ordered. ‘Let them know you care about them - more than you do a bottle of beer and a game of footy with Tadger Brown.’

  All at once Davie’s astonished face broke into a grin. He had never before been told off so roundly by Louie, and it made him feel quite ashamed.

  ‘By, you can tell you’re married to Sam Ritson,’ he laughed. ‘You’ll make a better leader than he will, Louie. You frightened the hell out of me for a second.’

  She flicked a tea towel at him and grinned back. ‘Well, while I’m in the bossing mood, you can help me fill the tub with water for Sam’s bath. He’ll be home for his breakfast shortly. And don’t tell him you slept off your hangover here last night; I don’t want him worrying about your problems. I want this to be a happy Christmas for us all.’

  While Louie fetched the zinc bath from its nail in the back yard and poured boiling water into it from the pot on the range, Davie went down to the stand pump and filled two pails of water. Dawn was breaking slowly at the bottom of the valley, a cold pearly light rising from the trees as if someone carrying a bright lamp was heading their way. He could smell the cheerful whiff of coal fires from the houses around, although in the half-dark, the blanket of smoke was indistinguishable from the grey sky.

  Davie splashed icy water from the tap over his face and grunted aloud as it stung his eyes. He would never touch a drop of alcohol again, he promised himself. From now on, it was goodbye to Tadger and the lads.

  When he got back, Sam had returned from the pit and was discarding his wet clothes by the hearth. His body was black with dust and knotted with fat
igue. Louie was bustling about him with tea and jam sandwiches. Davie realised he was ravenously hungry.

  ‘That looks good, Louie,’ he said brightly, picking a sandwich off as she went by. ‘Morning, Sam. That you done for the holiday?’

  ‘Aye,’ Sam groaned in relief. ‘What you doing here?’ He was suddenly suspicious.

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ Louie said quickly. ‘Davie’s just leaving, aren’t you, Davie?’ She shot him a warning look. ‘He’s got an important errand this morning that won’t wait.’

  ‘Aye, well, I’ll be off then,’ Davie said, making for the door. ‘Louie,’ he hesitated outside and dropped his voice, ‘you couldn’t lend us the train fare back? I cannot make Iris and Raymond walk all the way like a couple of tinkers, can I?’

  Louie sighed and slipped back into the house. Sam had his back to her as he sat in the tub and was singing vigorously, so he did not hear her reach behind the tea caddy on the mantelpiece for a couple of coins.

  ‘This is the last time I bail you out,’ she said severely as she handed over the money.

  ‘Ta, Louie.’ Davie gave her a sloppy kiss on her cheek and deposited the coins in his trouser pocket. Fixing his cap on the back of his head he strode off down Gladstone Terrace whistling happily, turning once to wave, knowing his sister would still be watching out for him.

  Louie went inside to make Sam’s breakfast. He was drying himself in front of the fire and she glanced bashfully at his nakedness, proud to think he was her husband.

  ‘You’re too soft with that lad,’ Sam commented gruffly.

  ‘Maybes.’ Louie shook her head at the thought of her wayward brother.

  ‘How much did you give him?’ Sam asked, reaching for a clean shirt. Louie gawped at him. ‘I don’t need eyes in the back of my head to know what you’re up to.’ He smiled at her guilty expression.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Louie mumbled, ‘I won’t do it again, it’s just he needed the train fare—’

  ‘You don’t have to explain,’ Sam cut in, seeing her blush in confusion. ‘Hey, Mrs Ritson, why haven’t you hung up that mistletoe yet?’ he teased, pulling her towards him. ‘It’s Christmas Eve and we haven’t had a kiss under it.’

  Louie giggled. ‘You’re in a good mood this morning. Have we time for kissing before the next committee meeting?’

  ‘Today there’s time for both, you cheeky lass,’ he laughed, and began the kissing.

  Durham was in a festive mood, with gaudily decorated Christmas trees in people’s windows and the town bustling with last-minute shoppers beckoned in by cheerful traders. The Salvation Army band stood playing carols in the marketplace and Davie felt his waning courage return with the rousing music.

  He found Mr Ramshaw in the bar.

  ‘I’ve come for Iris,’ Davie waded in aggressively.

  ‘And a happy Christmas to you too,’ Ramshaw replied, his brow trickling with perspiration in the fug of the room. ‘Not that you deserve it from what I hear.’

  Davie nearly lost his nerve and turned to run, but the ten-mile walk had made his leg stiffen up painfully and he wanted to sit down. ‘You’ll find her upstairs,’ his father-in-law said more encouragingly, ‘arguing with her brothers and sisters. I thought you were never coming.’ He gave a lopsided smile. Davie grinned back and disappeared through the back door.

  ‘So, Davie Kirkup,’ Iris pouted at him disdainfully, ‘sobered up at last, have you?’ Davie was nearly swamped by the din from the younger children. Percy, one of Iris’s brothers, dived through his legs and punched Tom, the younger one.

  ‘Haway, Iris,’ he said, ignoring her sarcasm, ‘you don’t belong here any more.’ He stepped forward and picked Raymond up from the floor. ‘Hello, bonny lad, I’ve missed you.’ Raymond responded by sticking dirty fingers into his father’s mouth.

  Iris sat defiant, her green-brown eyes full of accusation. ‘And what do we have to go back to?’ she demanded. ‘You’re out of work, there’s no chance of getting our own home now. You spend every spare minute away from the two of us, boozing and carrying on like the other bad lads you knock around with. You must be joking if you think we’re coming back with you.’ She reached out and pulled Raymond from Davie’s arms.

  They stood for a minute glaring at one another, each wanting the other to swallow their pride first. Iris had spent the last three days watching out for any sign of her husband coming to fetch her, but now he was here she could not help the hurtful words. She wanted to hear him say he was sorry and that he loved her, the way he used to tell her so easily.

  ‘I can’t change the person I am,’ Davie answered crossly. He had expected her to rush into his arms like all the romantic heroines in the films. Then it would have been easy to apologise while comforting her and telling her he could not live without her or Raymond. ‘So are you coming or not?’

  Iris’s brothers stopped their tussle, aware that a more serious battle was taking place over their heads. There was silence in the room for a moment, and nobody moved. Outside the band was playing ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’. But Iris just stood rooted to the floor, clutching Raymond, who was beginning to fret.

  ‘No, Davie,’ she answered him helplessly, ‘we’re not.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Eleanor knew that, having been given their Christmas boxes, Eb and Hilda were to be allowed the afternoon of Christmas Eve off from Greenbrae. Isobel had shown her the beige stockings that she had chosen for Hilda, knowing the girl’s love of fashion. For Eb, on Eleanor’s recommendation, she had bought a box of watercolour paints. For the family, instructed by her father, Isobel had ordered a large basket of fruit and two tins of ham. Doctor Joice had been worried the younger members were not getting enough vitamins in their diet at this time of the year. Baby Raymond’s face had been covered with sores and streaming with cold the last time he had visited the household at Hawthorn Street. Vitamins, Isobel had told her friend wryly, were all the rage among doctors these days.

  Cutting through the frost-spangled trees of Whitton Woods, Eleanor arrived at the allotment to find it deserted. Disappointment enveloped her. She only had an hour away from the house, as there was still much to do before their party that evening. Beatrice’s friend Sukie had unexpectedly invited herself for Christmas as her parents were holidaying abroad. More surprisingly, she was bringing her new boyfriend, who happened to be Beatrice’s former escort, the American Will Bryce. Beatrice assured her sister that it made no difference to her, as they were both still her friends, and Sandy was not the jealous type.

  Eleanor so wanted to wish Eb a happy Christmas before tomorrow. But the short afternoon was growing dark and she reluctantly admitted she should return to The Grange and all its frenetic preparations.

  Instead of retracing her steps back through the woods and over the Common, Eleanor took the path that skirted the village and crossed the main road that led eventually to Durham. It would take her twenty minutes longer to walk home by road, but there was just a possibility she would bump into Eb along the way.

  For once she found the tightly packed terraces of Whitton Grange inviting in the gathering twilight. Lights shone out of kitchen windows and red and silver baubles glinted in their cheery glow. Funnels of smoke drifted up from every chimney into an indigo sky, where the evening star hung like a fairy light to guide her home. As Eleanor circled the village, the sound of children playing under the gas lamps was as clear as the evening chorus of birds. There was a frisson of expectation in their calls that was only heard at this time of year. She marvelled at how children could enjoy themselves whatever their circumstances.

  Leaving Whitton Grange behind with a strange feeling of being left out of a party, Eleanor quickened her pace for home. But before she reached the lane that wound up the hillside to The Grange, a figure loomed menacingly out of the dark towards her.

  His cap was askew and he reeked of alcohol as he lurched at her, cursing. Eleanor’s heart thudded in fright.

  ‘Out of my way,’ he slurred, a
nd knocked into her shoulder. His cap fell to the ground and in the dim light Eleanor recognised the thin, wolfish face.

  ‘Davie!’ she cried, catching his arm as he staggered and lost his footing.

  ‘Leave me be,’ he answered crossly, trying to shake her off.

  ‘It’s your friend, Davie,’ Eleanor persisted gently, no longer afraid of him, ‘Mrs Seward-Scott.’ The name seemed to halt his aggression and he tried to focus on her, his expression puzzled.

  ‘Mrs S’ward-Scott?’ he repeated with difficulty.

  ‘Yes,’ Eleanor encouraged, ‘come and sit over here for a minute.’ She guided him to the side of the road and sat him on a stone that had come loose from the field wall. ‘What’s happened, Davie?’ she probed. ‘Should you not be home with your family?’

  Davie belched unhappily. ‘She won’t come home,’ he told her. ‘She’s got my bairn and she won’t come home.’

  ‘Iris?’ Eleanor guessed. Davie nodded. ‘She’s gone back to Durham then?’ Davie nodded again.

  ‘She thinks I’m a bad husband,’ he mumbled, ‘but what sort of wife gans off with your only bairn without a word?’

  ‘And do you want her back?’ Eleanor asked quietly. Davie’s head sagged and he hid his face in his hands.

  ‘I love ‘em both,’ he whispered. ‘Iris and Raymond mean everything to me.’ Then, his emotions loosened by drink, the young miner began to cry. Eleanor let him sob for a minute and then placed a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I think we should get you home now,’ she said briskly. ‘You don’t want to spoil Christmas for the rest of your family, do you? No doubt they’ll be wondering where you are. How long have you been wandering about here?’ She helped him to his feet and he wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket, suddenly embarrassed.

  ‘Can’t remember, miss,’ he grunted.

  ‘Cheer up,’ Eleanor cajoled. ‘If I was Iris, I’d be hoping to see you again. And when you do, you can tell her what you’ve just told me.’ She smiled at him and handed him back his cap.