Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘No,’ Sam laughed tentatively. ‘By heck, a bairn of our own, eh?’ He grabbed her in a joyful hug. ‘I love you, Louie Ritson, so I do.’

  At The Grange they finished Christmas evening with charades. Isobel and her father had been invited for dinner, which had been a relatively light meal of soup and poached salmon, duck and desserts, following the gargantuan feast at midday. It was a relaxed, intimate evening after the impressive engagement party of the night before, when half the county had braved the icy roads to drink Beatrice and Sandy’s health in champagne and eat the vast buffet prepared by the cook, Mrs Dennison, and her staff.

  ‘Show us how to Charleston, Bea.’ Will was egging her on as the charades came to an end.

  ‘Oh yes, come on, Bea,’ Sukie squealed with delight.

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’ Beatrice put on a prim face and slid Sandy a look. He was standing on guard, close to his new fiancée, as if to protect her from the bad influence of her bright young friends.

  ‘I hear it’s pretty shocking,’ Reginald huffed in disapproval. ‘Negro influence and all that.’

  ‘Don’t be stuffy, Reggie,’ Eleanor chided. ‘I’d like to see it.’

  Reginald flushed and gave his wife a resentful look. Her appearance tonight was stunning, dressed as she was in a shimmering silver dress, tasselled from the waist downwards and beaded with pearls across the front. Her short hair was completely hidden in a black satin cap, intricately embroidered in silver thread and pearl drops. In contrast to Beatrice and Sukie, she wore no make-up, yet her dark-brown eyes dominated her pale face. They watched him with disinterest from behind a spiral of smoke from her ivory cigarette holder. He felt goaded by her quiet contempt for him, in contrast with her lively conversation with the other guests. It infuriated him that she could still attract his interest, even though he knew he was no longer welcome in her bedroom.

  ‘Oh, very well.’ Beatrice needed no other encouragement than to shock her brother-in-law.

  Reginald threw back his brandy in one swig. Sukie and Will were already rolling back the animal-skin rugs and Beatrice was instructing Sandy to wind up the gramophone. Eleanor had made him look foolish in his opposition to this vulgar dance.

  ‘Well, I’ll not stay to watch,’ Reginald muttered. ‘I shall retire to bed. Good night.’ He nodded briefly at the Joices. Eleanor shot him a furious look for his deliberate breach of hospitality.

  ‘We must be going anyhow.’ Isobel touched her friend’s arm, not wanting to make an issue of Reginald’s rudeness. ‘It’s been a wonderful evening, as always.’ Eleanor and her father accompanied their friends to the door.

  ‘If you’re interested in coming up in my aeroplane, you’ll let me know,’ Thomas Seward-Scott urged the doctor.

  ‘If I ever find the time, I’d be delighted,’ Dr Joice laughed.

  ‘You’ll just have to,’ Eleanor pleaded. ‘It’s all Daddy will talk about these days. The thought of flying makes me feel quite ill, but it’s become his passion, hasn’t it, Daddy?’

  ‘It’s the transport of the future,’ her father declared enthusiastically, ‘we’ll all be flying about in aeroplanes soon.’

  ‘Not me. I’ll stick to my bicycle, thank you very much.’ Isobel smiled. ‘Good night, and thank you for a lovely evening.’

  The Seward-Scotts waved their guests off into the frosty night. Behind them in the house the up-tempo music of the Charleston mingled with shrieks of delight from the remaining revellers.

  ‘I think I’ll go for a short stroll,’ Eleanor announced, beckoned by the starry night and the cool air outside.

  ‘You won’t go too far, will you, my dear?’ her father insisted.

  ‘Just on to the terrace,’ Eleanor assured him, and they kissed good night. Her father turned back to face her as she wrapped herself in a large red cashmere shawl.

  ‘I know things aren’t too good between you and Reginald,’ Thomas Seward-Scott said forthrightly, ‘and I’m sorry that should be so. I’ll say no more on it.’ He raised a hand to block Eleanor’s protest. ‘I just ask that you don’t do anything rash.’ Eleanor felt her face flush red.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her mind raced to think of the kisses she had exchanged with Eb within sight of The Grange.

  ‘Reginald will need your support in the coming months,’ her father answered mysteriously. ‘It’s not going to be an easy year for us coalowners, Eleanor, so we’ll all have to put up a united front. Close ranks. Do you understand what I’m saying?’ For a moment Eleanor saw the shrewdness in her father’s eyes, the hard-headed businessman beneath the amiable, eccentric country-gentleman exterior he liked to cultivate.

  ‘I’m not sure I do understand,’ she replied warily. Her father came towards her and dropped his voice.

  ‘There’s conflict ahead, my dear, and you must make up your mind whose side you are on. For my sake and The Grange’s, if not for your husband’s, I hope you will see your duty lies in supporting us.’

  Eleanor was shocked by his bluntness. Then almost as if nothing had been said, her father smiled and kissed her forehead. ‘Enjoy your walk. It’s been a most agreeable day and you’ve been the perfect hostess as usual. Good night, dear Eleanor.’ He turned and headed purposefully up the central staircase, leaving his elder daughter quite unnerved.

  She wandered round to the terrace and lit a cigarette, calming her thoughts as she looked in the direction of Whitton Grange. It was all so peaceful, belying her uneasy feeling that her father and Reginald were equipping themselves for some great battle ahead. And where did her loyalties lie? she wondered. Eleanor tried to picture what Eb was doing at that moment. She could not see the village, for the bank of thick woodland and the curve of the hillside hid it from view. It was as if The Grange rested in an idyllic rural Never-Never Land, divorced from the grim realities of the pit villages which dotted the valley below. Under the arch of inky black sky speckled with stars, it was impossible to think it would ever change.

  ‘Sure is cold out here.’ Will’s voice startled her from behind. ‘Did you think the dancing was that bad?’

  Eleanor laughed in response. ‘No, Beatrice and Sukie are wonderful dancers. I just needed some fresh air,’ she replied.

  ‘It doesn’t come much fresher than this.’ Will gave a theatrical shiver. ‘Don’t suppose you’d like to warm me up?’ He put a casual arm around her waist. Eleanor gently removed his hold.

  ‘Why did you really come here for Christmas, Will?’ she asked him quizzically. ‘Was it to try and stop Beatrice becoming engaged? I can tell there’s nothing between you and Sukie. It was just an arrangement, wasn’t it?’

  Will laughed disarmingly. ‘You have ten times the intelligence of the rest of your family.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Eleanor rebuked him, ‘and I’m not easily flattered.’ She scrutinised his face. ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘I came to seduce you,’ he answered without a qualm.

  ‘You’re quite impossible!’ Eleanor laughed, embarrassed by his directness. ‘You’ll say anything to shock.’

  ‘It’s God’s honest truth,’ Will replied and, cupping the back of her head in his hands he kissed her roundly on the mouth. Eleanor pushed him away.

  ‘Don’t.’ She was firm.

  Will sighed. ‘Then it’s true.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Beatrice said you already have a lover. I’m just sorry I’m too late,’ Will answered, not the least abashed by her rejection.

  ‘Beatrice shouldn’t say such things,’ Eleanor said crossly. ‘It’s just not true.’

  ‘Then you’ll still consider me?’ Will’s voice was hopeful.

  ‘No.’ Eleanor grew impatient. ‘I’m not looking for an affair.’

  Will brushed her cheek gently with a finger. ‘I think you’ve already found one,’ he said reflectively, ‘and I envy him, whoever he is.’

  Eleanor turned abruptly and left the terrace. It worried her that she was failing to hide her feelings for Eb. Perhaps ev
en her father suspected that something was going on. She would have to be more careful.

  From the edge of the woods, staring up towards the terrace lit by the gaudy electric chandeliers, Eb watched the American stub out a cigarette and follow Eleanor inside. It had been a stupid, romantic notion to climb the hill and see if he could glimpse Eleanor at home, dining in the splendour of The Grange. He had wanted to capture a memory of her to paint and surprise her with later.

  Eb did not recognise the man who had sat so close to her on the edge of the stone balustrade, and he did not want to know. He was overwhelmed by a feeling of being totally cut off from the fairy-tale scene before him; it was a world he did not know and could never enter, like the officers’ mess in his army days.

  A lump formed in his throat as he scrambled back over the high wall and jumped on to the rough ground that bordered the estate. He knew then that his love for Eleanor was futile.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Your place is with Davie,’ Louie told Iris firmly, above the noise of the children in the Ramshaws’ crowded upstairs sitting room. Raymond was trying to stand up and was steadying himself against Louie’s knees. His aunt put out her hands to help him take a couple of wobbly steps. Raymond beamed with the achievement and sank on to his bottom.

  ‘Why hasn’t he come himself?’ Iris asked moodily. ‘Too drunk from Christmas to find his way out of Whitton Grange?’

  ‘He hasn’t touched a drop all holiday,’ came Louie’s retort. ‘He asked me to come,’ she added less hotly, ‘and he wanted me to come straightaway after Christmas, but it’s been that busy at home I haven’t been able to come into Durham until now.’ It was New Year’s Eve and Louie thought it as good a time as any for new resolutions and reconciliation. ‘Minnie had her baby on Boxing Day - a boy, they’ve called him Jack.’ Louie omitted to tell her sister-in-law that she herself had been so sick the past week that she had hardly moved from the house.

  Iris stood up restlessly and went to peer out of the window at the busy market square below.

  ‘I’m frightened, Louie,’ she whispered. ‘I’m frightened to go back.’

  ‘What in the wide world for?’ the younger woman asked in astonishment. ‘Davie’s not the type to give you a beating for taking off with Raymond.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t let him lay a finger on me like that!’ Iris spun round, giving a flash of her normal spirit.

  ‘Then what do you mean?’ Louie was baffled.

  ‘I’m scared of being poor,’ Iris admitted, her green eyes looking to Louie for understanding. ‘Oh, I know my family aren’t rich or anything, but we’ve always had the pub - a steady business - we’ve never gone without. But Davie’s out of work now and we’ve got no savings, nothing to fall back on. We haven’t even got our own home - the room we sleep in belongs to everyone else during the day. I’m not used to living like that, Louie. I have this bad dream that Davie won’t get taken back on at the pit, that Raymond will never have any new clothes again, that I’ll never be able to afford to go to the pictures.’

  Louie laughed derisively at this last fear. Iris pursed her lips together in annoyance. ‘Don’t laugh at me. I’m serious.’

  ‘Aye.’ Louie felt a twinge of pity for her sister-in-law; at least she was being honest. ‘But you mustn’t worry about Davie not working - they’ll be taking lads on in the New Year - Sam and the others will see to that. And you’ll never starve in our village,’ Louie insisted. ‘We all help each other in bad times; pit folk are the most neighbourly folk you’ll ever come across. You’re one of the family now, Iris, and we all want you back.’

  Iris smiled gratefully at her tall, fair-haired sister-in-law, though she was sure Louie was exaggerating the degree to which she was missed. She watched her rumbustious brothers Tom and Percy fighting over some lead soldiers that one of them had got for Christmas and both wanted to play with that minute. Her sisters Nora and Jean were using the furniture as imaginary ships at sea, so there was no room for anyone else to sit down. The noise was deafening. To stay here was impossible. Louie was right; she had thrown in her lot with Davie and the Kirkups, and she had no choice but to return to their drab pit village. Her fanciful ideas of being a famous singer were mere childish dreams; her fears of sinking into poverty childish too.

  ‘I’ll come home then,’ Iris sighed without enthusiasm.

  ‘Grand,’ Louie answered brightly, swinging Raymond into her arms. ‘Come on, little lad, Auntie Louie will get you dressed.’ She kissed his red cheeks and wiped his runny nose. ‘Won’t your daddy be pleased to see you, eh?’

  Eleanor served tea in the drawing room. The Fishers had joined their house party for New Year at Reginald’s insistence. The morning had been spent hunting across Highfell Common, the red of their hunting uniforms a ribbon of garish colour fluttering over the dead browns of the moor. Rose Fisher had stayed at the house with Sukie and Will and Harriet Swainson, who had no appetite for the chase but preferred to while away the short day over a large jigsaw that was spread out on a carved table in the bay window.

  Eleanor had been distant with Will since his approach to her in the garden, but he seemed quite happy to allow Mrs Fisher to flirt with him. Even now, with the others present, Rose Fisher’s dyed blonde waves of hair were bent towards Will over the table, her hands, heavily ringed and bangled, brushing against his as she attempted to force the wrong piece of jigsaw into the puzzle.

  ‘Do you take milk in your tea, Mrs Fisher?’ Eleanor interrupted. In spite of the woman’s insistence that she should call her Rose, Eleanor felt a perverse pleasure in addressing her formally.

  ‘Please, darling,’ she turned her heavily made-up face towards her hostess, ‘and two lumps of sugar.’

  Her eldest daughter, Libby, strode across the room still in riding breeches and exuding an air of rude good health. ‘Let me help you, Eleanor,’ she insisted, grabbing the cup Eleanor was pouring and spilling tea into the saucer. ‘You missed a jolly good day’s riding,’ she continued, unabashed by her clumsiness. ‘Superb stable Reggie’s got.’

  Eleanor considered the young woman for a moment as she handed her a plate of drop scones to distribute. She was fresh-faced, with sandy eyebrows and short, straight red hair which she kept flicking away from her brown eyes. Except they were not quite brown, but flecked with a pale green that made one want to keep looking at them.

  ‘My father’s always been proud of his horses,’ Eleanor replied, reminding the girl that it was he and not Reginald who still owned The Grange. Libby held her look coolly for a second and then smiled.

  ‘Daddy is much more comfortable in a car seat than the saddle,’ Libby joked, and gave a nervously loud laugh.

  ‘Hurry up with those scones, Libby.’ Reginald beckoned her across the room. She turned and gave him a broad smile that Eleanor did not miss. Neither did she fail to intercept the admiring look that her husband bestowed on the buxom Libby.

  ‘You don’t ride then?’ Sandy Mackintosh asked quietly, appearing at her elbow and holding a cup for her to refill.

  Eleanor smiled at him. ‘When I was younger, my brother Rupert and I used to ride all over the county. I’ve lost the enthusiasm for it now - I’d really rather walk.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen you out on the hill in all weathers,’ Sandy replied, amusement in his blue eyes. ‘It must be your Scottish ancestry, this desire to be out in the rain.’ Eleanor laughed. She was growing fond of Beatrice’s shy, diffident fiancé with his flashes of humour.

  ‘Well, you should feel at home in this weather, Sandy,’ she responded, nodding her head towards the window as a fresh squall hit the panes. Eleanor loved this time of the day, just before the curtains were drawn and the world became swallowed up by night. It was so cosy in their brightly lit drawing room, with a log fire blazing in the wide marble recess and the conversation muted among the chink of china tea cups. Only one thought spoilt her enjoyment, and that was her failure to see Eb at the allotment that afternoon. She had found it sadly empt
y, a solitary robin waiting on the fence to have his picture painted.

  ‘Come on, Bernard!’ Reginald’s hearty cry jarred on her nerves. ‘Let’s leave the ladies to prepare for dinner and have a game of billiards.’ He steered the stout and jovial Mr Fisher towards the door, winking at Libby as he went. Eleanor turned her back and went to talk to Beatrice.

  ‘It’s going to be a long evening,’ her sister muttered, rolling her eyes.

  ‘Will seems to be enjoying himself,’ Eleanor commented.

  ‘Yes, well, Will is an opportunist, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ Beatrice said with an edge of disapproval in her voice. It amused Eleanor to see her young sister becoming more respectable by the day, as she settled into her role as prospective wife of an army captain.

  ‘I’m going to lie down for an hour,’ Eleanor announced.

  ‘Well, don’t suddenly develop a headache,’ Beatrice warned her. ‘I’m not coping with the Fishers on my own.’

  Louie had half hoped Davie would have been at Whitton Station to meet them, but they had to trudge the half-mile up the hill to Hawthorn Street alone, with the baby and Iris’s possessions piled high in the pram the Ramshaws had bought. Neither of the girls spoke, and Raymond had fallen asleep.

  Sadie was the first to spot the weary troupe. She waved and then dashed into the house.

  ‘Louie’s coming,’ she shouted excitedly, ‘and she’s bringing Iris and Raymond!’

  Fanny Kirkup let out a sigh of relief. ‘Go and tell Davie,’ she ordered. ‘He’s moping upstairs.’ Sadie clattered up the steps to the bedroom and found her cousin asleep on the bed.

  ‘She’s here, Davie.’ Sadie shook him awake. ‘Iris is here.’

  Louie flopped thankfully into a chair by the fire, too tired to even remove her coat. Iris looked bashfully at her mother-in-law, and at Eb who was whittling a piece of wood in the corner of the kitchen. He smiled and said hello. Fanny immediately took Raymond from his pram and searched for him among the folds of scarf and blankets and knitted hat. She did not know what to say to her daughter-in-law; she still felt guilty at having lost her temper and spoken such hurtful words to the young girl. In part she felt responsible for the rift that had come about between the Durham lass and the family.