Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  They continued to chug along in silence for several minutes as the yellow fields of newly cut wheat slid past them. Scarlet poppies daubed the hedgerows like careless splashes of paint and it suddenly occurred to Eb that he did not have the slightest idea where Eleanor was taking him.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked her nervously.

  ‘Newcastle.’ She turned and smiled secretively.

  ‘Why Newcastle?’ he questioned in astonishment.

  ‘You’ll see.’ She looked ahead and curled her cream-gloved fingers firmly around the steering wheel.

  ‘I’ve got band practice later,’ Eb protested half-heartedly. Eleanor ignored the comment.

  An hour later, despite fierce objections, Eleanor bought Eb a tasteful green paisley tie. By the time they re-emerged from the discreet shop with its smell of new cloth and polished counters, Eb’s face was a thunderous red. Undaunted, Eleanor slipped her arm through his possessively and led him across busy Northumberland Street into New Bridge Street. At the steps to an impressively large building with Palladian pillars and ostentatious belfry, proclaiming itself the Laing Gallery, she stopped.

  ‘You told me you’d never been inside an art gallery,’ she challenged him. ‘Well today you will. I just thought you’d feel better in a new tie.’

  Eb blushed at the thought of his tattered necktie stuffed in his pocket.

  ‘Stand out less like a sore thumb, you mean?’ he accused.

  ‘Look, I don’t care what you dress in,’ Eleanor replied shortly, ‘but we don’t want to draw undue attention to ourselves, do we?’

  He had to concede Eleanor was right. She was taking a risk as it was being seen in public with a man so obviously not of her class.

  ‘You should have told me we were coming here,’ Eb rebuked. ‘I could have borrowed John’s suit - it’s newer than mine.’

  ‘And how would you have explained your appearance to half the village?’ Eleanor responded, amused. ‘That you were off to town to meet your lover?’ Eb blushed at the truth of what she said, strangely excited by the bold intimacy of her words.

  ‘Aye, s’pose not.’ He grinned sheepishly and followed her up the steps.

  Minutes later, he had forgotten his awkwardness and recent humiliation as he wandered around the high-ceilinged rooms of the gallery, feasting his eyes on the vast selection of paintings. Huge panoramic landscapes, scenes from Tyneside’s past, hung in their heavy gilded frames; sombre portraits of local worthies, and naked cherubs in religious friezes adorned the cool rooms. After half an hour, Eleanor found him again.

  ‘It’s this exhibition I want you to see.’ She hurried him impatiently into a further room. In contrast, the paintings in this smaller exhibition were decidedly modern in style. There was a stark reality to their subjects, harsh lines and brutal contrasts in light and shade and colour. There was nothing pretentious or sentimental about these pictures. Eb was immediately excited by their uncompromising boldness. He stood before a painting of ships in a harbour by an artist called Wadsworth.

  ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ Eleanor whispered in the quiet of the chamber. There’s something hypnotic about the scene - and where have all the fishermen gone? It raises so many questions, don’t you think?’

  ‘I wish I could paint like this,’ Eb answered enviously.

  ‘You can,’ Eleanor encouraged. ‘Your style is unfussy too. It’s simpler and more natural than these - I like it better - these figures are almost machine-like.’

  Eb turned to a self-portrait by another artist. ‘His unhappiness is all over his face,’ he commented. ‘He seems cut off from us.’

  ‘Yes,’ Eleanor answered eagerly, ‘that’s exactly it.’ She swept her hand around the room. ‘Paintings like these frighten me, if I’m perfectly honest; they show up our alienation, the human cost of our industrialised society.’

  Eb found himself agreeing, throwing suggestions and ideas at the paintings as Eleanor did, revelling in seeing such canvases in the flesh and not just in well-thumbed magazines at the library. He found the experience energising; he itched to get back to his paints.

  ‘You should go to night classes, Eb,’ Eleanor insisted, ‘and develop your talent. A friend of mine, Ruth Spencer, runs an art class in Durham - she gives individual tuition too.’

  ‘How could I possibly afford art classes in Durham?’ Eb sighed.

  ‘You know I’d pay for them.’ Eleanor’s voice was quietly pleading.

  ‘I don’t like to be beholden,’ Eb objected stubbornly.

  ‘Oh, you’re quite impossible!’ Eleanor remonstrated.

  Their talk was so animated they were unaware of two young women entering the room, until one of them exclaimed, ‘Eleanor, fancy meeting you here!’

  Eleanor spun round guiltily to see the freckled face of Harriet Swainson, daughter of her father’s good friend, beaming at her.

  ‘Harriet,’ Eleanor smiled and regained her composure, ‘how nice to see you. Are you enjoying the exhibition?’

  ‘Not really,’ the girl confessed candidly with a giggle. ‘Susie and I were told to fill in an hour until Daddy takes us out to lunch - Susie’s an old schoolfriend of mine, by the way.’ Harriet hastily introduced her bored-looking friend. Eleanor shook hands with Susie. ‘We just came in here for a bit of a lark. Aren’t these pictures too, too awful?’ Harriet giggled again. ‘Won’t you join us for lunch?’ she asked, suddenly earnest under her pink cloche hat. ‘It’s ages since Daddy saw you and it would be such fun.’

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t stay.’ Eleanor quashed the idea firmly. ‘We were just on the point of leaving, in fact.’ Harriet turned a quizzical brown-eyed gaze on Eleanor’s silent companion. ‘This is Mr Flanders, an artist friend of mine,’ Eleanor improvised quickly. ‘He has a train to catch, so you must excuse us.’

  Eb nodded stiffly at the two young women in their fresh cotton dresses and beat a hasty retreat behind Eleanor.

  ‘We’ll see you soon, I hope,’ Harriet called after them. Eleanor waved in acknowledgement. As they disappeared Harriet added to Susie, ‘She’s a bit of a cool one, used to frighten me to death as a child. Her father owns masses of mines near Durham. I used to have a crush on her husband, Reggie, when I was younger - he’s absolutely topping. Daddy says Eleanor’s rotten to him though, poor Reggie.’

  ‘Sick-making,’ Susie agreed, because that was her favourite expression for everything at the moment.

  Harriet giggled suddenly. ‘Wonder where she found that artist? Rather good-looking in a common sort of way, don’t you think?’

  ‘Didn’t look much like an artist to me,’ Susie answered scornfully. ‘More like a railway porter dressed up for a tea dance.’ Harriet dissolved into hysterics at the description.

  ‘Well, Eleanor did say he had a train to catch!’ she screeched with mirth. The two friends subsided into giggles and their laughter rang around the hushed gallery until a disapproving attendant wagged a finger at them to stop.

  Back out in the bright sunshine, Eleanor hurried Eb into a nearby tea room. She lit up a cigarette despite the sidelong looks of three elderly ladies occupying the table to their right.

  ‘Mr Flanders?’ Eb gave way to his amusement and they laughed with the relief of escape. ‘What made you say that?’

  ‘It just came into my head.’ Eleanor blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘Harriet Swainson’s parents are very pally with my father - I couldn’t take the risk of using your real name - you just never know what might be said.’

  Eb’s face clouded in worry. ‘Will she say anything?’

  Eleanor shrugged. ‘Harriet is a scatterbrain - she’ll probably forget to mention she even saw me, let alone some unknown artist she hardly glanced at.’

  Eb accepted her assurances. He did not want their afternoon spoilt by the chance encounter in the gallery. He was enjoying himself more than he could remember, stimulated by his visit to the Laing and the close proximity of the woman he loved. Eleanor ordered tea and they returned to their t
alk of art and painters, dismissing any lingering thoughts of the garrulous Harriet Swainson.

  At the end of the afternoon, Eb took off his new tie and replaced it with his old one, and Eleanor drove him to within half a mile of the village before letting him go.

  They arranged to go hiking the following day and Eleanor offered to provide a picnic. A subtle change had seeped into their relationship that day; their friendship was putting down deeper roots, no longer just a manifestation of physical liking and an answer to loneliness. Each increasingly desired the company of the other, like the thirsty allotment plants craving the summer rain.

  Louie did not journey to Durham on the day Sam and Bomber were released; instead she went to her mother-in-law’s house to help prepare a homecoming meal, while the lodge officials and Sam’s friends made a noisy demonstration of solidarity outside the gaol.

  Mrs Ritson and Bel bustled around excitedly and Louie ignored their pleas for her to sit and rest, busying herself as much as possible. The food was unspectacular; a pot of vegetable soup supplemented by a few fatty ends of bacon Johnny had managed to procure from a butcher friend. There was bread without butter and weak tea, saved for this special occasion. The crowning glory of the meal was a rhubarb pie made by Fanny Kirkup and a tin of peaches which Mary had won at a fund-raising tombola. Liza Ritson calculated there would be enough in the tin to give the men a decent portion each.

  ‘It may not be much,’ Mrs Ritson said, her round face glowing from the heat of the stove, ‘but at least our Sam’ll be eating in freedom.’

  ‘Only the Lord can offer everlasting freedom,’ Mary sermonised as she set the table. ‘We’re all prisoners of our own frailties and only God can set us free from those.’ She banged a spoon decisively down on the linen tablecloth.

  ‘Well, I think our Sam’ll settle for the freedom he’s got today,’ Bel commented, ‘coming home to Louie and—’ She broke off suddenly, reddening at the words left unsaid.

  ‘And all his family,’ her mother finished quickly. ‘Now less talk of God, our Mary, and more attention to that table. Have you polished the brass candlesticks?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mary answered, ‘but I don’t see why we need candles for tea when it doesn’t get dark until nearly ten.’

  ‘We don’t have to light them,’ her mother replied shortly, ‘but they set off the table nicely.’

  ‘We’ve only got ends to put in them, Mam,’ Bel said, rummaging around in the cupboard under the stairs.

  ‘I’ll get some from Mr Armstrong,’ Mary offered. ‘He can take them off my wages.’ With a nod from her mother, Mary dashed off to the shop in Mill Terrace where she worked during the week. She caught her employer as he was rolling in his striped canopy above the shop window. It took little persuasion for the bespectacled Mr Armstrong to part with four candles. Mary knew he was generous in allowing his customers to put their tobacco and household goods on credit, and she prayed fervently that the continued lock-out would not bankrupt him and put her out of a job.

  By the time she had returned across the village, Sam had arrived home with brother-in-law Johnny and her father. The family in the kitchen appeared strangely subdued, talking in nervous whispers.

  ‘I’ve got four candles,’ Mary announced loudly.

  ‘Shh!’ Her mother flapped a plump hand at her youngest. ‘Sam’s in the parlour with Louie.’ Mary looked towards the closed door.

  ‘Why are you all listening then?’ Mary asked accusingly.

  ‘We’re not.’ Her mother spoke at once in a raised voice.

  ‘Get the tea served,’ Samuel Ritson ordered brusquely. ‘They’ll be out any minute.’

  By the time Bel and her mother had ladled soup into the first three bowls, the parlour door opened. Sam came out first, forcing his grave face into a smile; Louie’s blotchy face and red-rimmed eyes betrayed the fact that she had been weeping. She contributed little to the conversation as the Ritsons talked across the table to each other. Sam told them of his experiences in prison, the monotony and the bad food, the lack of news about the strike. In return, his father told him of the moves at the pit to get men back to work; his mother delighted in bearing the news that Joseph Gallon had deserted one of the Slatterys and that Margaret and child were now living in Bomber’s house.

  ‘And that Minnie Slattery hasn’t even bothered to come home when her husband comes out of prison,’ Mrs Ritson said disapprovingly. ‘It’s a scandal.’

  Mary defended her old classmate. ‘She’s working up at Stand High to earn some money for her family.’

  ‘Tch!’ her mother responded.

  ‘It was my idea that she went.’ Louie spoke up for the first time. Mrs Ritson looked at her in surprise, the silence round the table tense. ‘She needed to be occupied,’ Louie continued, feeling she was somehow on trial. How could she tell them that her main motivation was to remove baby Jack from her sight? ‘Minnie’ll be back shortly.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sam patted her hand, ‘of course she will. Now tell me what the Distress Committee has been up to.’

  Sam and Louie did not linger after tea. They said their goodbyes and walked home via the dene, talking in snatches about everything but themselves. Louie wanted him to tell her how he felt about their lost baby, but she could not bring herself to ask. The weight of her failure was crushing her chest and blocking the words in her throat.

  Fanny Kirkup had taken Sadie back to Hawthorn Street for a few days and the tiny house seemed bleakly empty on their return. They went to bed and lay awake listening to the sounds of men arguing over a game of pitch and toss in the street outside. Louie longed for the physical comfort of Sam’s lovemaking, but her womb was still bleeding and he seemed frightened of touching her.

  At some time during the night Louie must have fallen asleep, because she awoke in the dark to feel the bed beside her empty.

  ‘Sam?’ she called out. There was no reply, so Louie swung herself out of bed. As her eyes grew accustomed to the night she saw that the room was empty and the back door ajar. Louie pulled her bed-shawl around her shoulders and padded barefoot across the peeling linoleum.

  She found her husband in his pyjamas leaning against the wall of the back lane. Louie shivered in the chilly damp air.

  ‘You’ll catch your death,’ she whispered and saw him flinch, startled by her stealthy approach.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he answered in a croaking whisper. Louie peered at him in concern and thought she saw his chiselled face damp with tears.

  ‘Sam,’ she began.

  ‘Louie!’ He suddenly reached for her and smothered her to his chest. She heard his body wrench out a sob. ‘I’m sorry, Louie,’ he cried, ‘I know how much the bairn meant to you.’

  Louie let the tears come, clinging to him in their shared grief. She knew it was his way of saying he mourned for their baby too.

  ‘I’ll never forgive them for this,’ Sam vowed.

  ‘Who Sam?’ Louie asked, her head resting on his chest.

  ‘The bosses who are starving us out.’ Sam’s voice was thick with fury. ‘To think they even tried to put you out on the street in your condition. That’s why you lost the bairn, and I wasn’t here to stop it!’

  ‘Don’t, Sam,’ Louie was horrified by his hatred. ‘Don’t blame yourself, don’t blame anyone.’

  ‘Someone has to be blamed, Louie,’ Sam answered in frustration, ‘someone has to!’

  ‘No, Sam.’ She cupped her hands around his harrowed face. ‘I’ve been blaming myself since it happened. But your Mary showed me that was pointless. She came and prayed with me one night, Sam, and since then I haven’t felt so guilty.’

  Sam looked at her strangely as if she was talking in an unknown language. ‘Your God didn’t stop this happening, did He?’ he demanded cruelly.

  Louie’s hands slipped from his face. ‘No,’ she admitted quietly, ‘and I don’t know why He let it happen. All I do know is this; if you let the bitterness take over, it’ll destroy you inside like a poison. It�
�ll destroy us both, Sam.’

  Chapter Twenty

  August came and Louie buried her great hurt in the struggle to help feed her family and neighbours. The numbers at the soup kitchen were growing every day and they desperately needed more funds to buy in basic foodstuffs. Fuel for stoves and fires was almost impossible to come by and on several occasions Eb and Sam had trespassed on to The Grange estate and come back with a barrow-load of wood. It was a common sight to see families picking along the rail track for cinders or combing the dene for dry twigs to keep their stoves alight.

  Bomber, nursing his anger at Minnie staying away on the farm a further two weeks, channelled his energies into organising a charity football match. His sister-in-law Margaret persuaded him to let the women take on the men. Hundreds of spectators turned out to see the women dressed in football strips or fancy dress ruthlessly hacking at the ankles of the men, bound together in pairs to put them at a disadvantage. The sums raised were modest but the hilarity of the occasion gave a boost to flagging morale among the pit folk.

  Louie had chivvied a morose Iris into taking part. ‘It’ll stop you thinking about our Davie all the time,’ she’d argued.

  ‘I don’t think about him all the time,’ Iris had replied petulantly, and then with a sigh. ‘Do you think he’s done a runner like Joseph Gallon? I haven’t heard from him in three weeks.’ Louie dismissed her own disquiet at her brother’s prolonged absence, especially since John had returned without him. She ignored the question and continued her coaxing.

  ‘You’re a born performer, Iris, and you’ll love it once you’re out there in front of the crowds. You’d be doing something good for the village an’ all.’

  Her moody sister-in-law had been convinced and to the surprise of many, discovered she had a talent for football. She danced around her opponents on nimble slim legs and daringly wore a man’s bathing suit along with an old-fashioned floppy straw hat fastened below the chin with a swathe of flowery material. Hilda was dressed as Charlie Chaplin in a baggy pair of her father’s trousers and his precious bowler hat. Margaret played in Bomber’s football clothes while he drew gleeful cheers dressed in a convict’s overalls with a makeshift ball and chain around his leg. The women’s team won by ten goals to six in the most unorthodox game ever staged in Whitton Grange Park.