Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills
Page 33
‘I really enjoyed myself,’ Iris laughed later, ‘it’s the first time for months I’ve had a bit of fun.’
Her mother-in-law looked up from her mending, her strained eyes focusing through the gloom. ‘You should sign up for that entertainment Reverend Pinkney is organising,’ she encouraged. ‘Our Eb said he’d play the piano for him.’
‘Do you think I should?’ Iris sounded excited by the idea, tumbling Raymond on to the rug and tickling him. Unusually, he objected to the rough play, whining in protest.
‘Of course you should,’ Louie interjected. ‘You could sing a few songs with Eb.’
‘Aye, I could.’ Iris picked up her whingeing son. ‘Oh, Raymond, shut up!’ She shook him suddenly as her impatience sparked.
‘Give him to me,’ Louie ordered quietly and held out her arms to the boy.
Iris dumped him into her hold and announced, ‘I’m going out. I’ll be over at Margaret’s if anyone wants me.’
Louie exchanged glances with her mother as Iris swept from the room. She found a stick of rhubarb for Raymond to suck and within minutes he had quietened.
‘He’s teething again, poor bairn,’ Louie diagnosed.
Her mother sighed and put down her needlework. ‘Iris is so nervy these days,’ she commented softly, ‘like tinder ready for the lighting.’
‘I wish Davie were home,’ Louie answered longingly. Her mother did not reply but Louie knew she spoke for them both.
At Stand High Farm the gang of fieldworkers was about to move on. Sarah, who had become friendly with Minnie, asked her if she wanted to go with them.
‘No, I must be going home soon.’ Minnie was subdued as she let Jack suckle her breast. Her milk had all but dried up, but she allowed him the comfort of sucking. The young women, their work almost done, were sitting under a hedge, avoiding the sharp-sighted foreman. ‘I’ve a husband who’s been in gaol and I haven’t seen for nigh on three months.’
‘Oh,’ Sarah sounded surprised, ‘I somehow thought you didn’t have a man — you know - you being with Davie …’ Her words tailed off.
Minnie felt a stab of guilt like indigestion. ‘Yes, well, I have,’ she answered sharply. They fell silent, allowing the noise of the threshing in the next field and the circling crows to cover the awkward pause. When Sarah saw Davie appear at the far gate and make his way towards them, she sprang up and left them alone.
Davie felt uneasy at the sight of Minnie’s baby fastened leech-like to her blue-veined breast. It reminded him that she was a mother and somebody else’s wife; not just anybody’s, but a friend of Sam and Louie’s. In his mind’s eye, he recalled Iris nursing Raymond in their bed with a bottle of warm milk; such a homely, intimate act. A hot flush of remorse engulfed him and he turned his eyes away from Minnie’s nakedness.
Minnie saw him flinch and pulled Jack from her nipple, quickly buttoning up her blouse. The baby gave a sharp cry of protest. For the first time she felt ill at ease in Davie’s presence, aware of his growing coolness towards her.
For two weeks they had revelled in each other’s company, coupling in the isolation of their hill fort or recklessly snatching a few moments of heady passion in one of the outhouses, while the work of the farm carried on around them. Their conversations were brief and always light-hearted and seldom did they refer to their families back home. It was as if no one else existed outside their cocooned world on the farm. They had worked hard, eaten well, made vigorous love and slept soundly.
Then John had left for Whitton Grange, arguing with Davie when he refused to go too. Davie’s fair-faced brother had been indifferent towards Minnie and turned a disinterested back on their affair. But with his going, the wall of make-believe built around them was breached and the tide of commitments lapped around their feet. They had not gone up the hill for two nights and Minnie could feel Davie’s ardour ebbing as his thoughts were pulled towards Whitton Grange.
‘There’s a wagon going down the valley the day after tomorrow.’ Davie spoke to the ripening berries in the hedge. ‘It’s passing Whitton on the way to Durham.’ He picked a pale blackberry and popped it in his mouth. It tasted bitter and he spat it out immediately.
‘You haven’t finished in the top field yet,’ Minnie reminded him. ‘Let’s wait till Sunday - get a lift with your uncle when he goes to church. I don’t mind walking the rest.’
The mention of his uncle or church seemed to irritate Davie. ‘You can go later if you like,’ he snapped. ‘I’m going Friday.’
Minnie reddened at his harsh tone. ‘You’ve changed your tune all of a sudden,’ she retaliated. ‘Last week you couldn’t get enough.’ Davie coloured at her crude words, bitten by the truth of what she said. He had gone sniffing after Minnie like a randy animal, with no thought of the consequences. Yet last night he had thrashed sleeplessly in his bed, plagued by thoughts of Iris and Raymond. He had finally fallen asleep only to be confronted by a silent Louie reproaching him at the foot of his bed. The dream had been so real, Davie had called his sister’s name as he awoke. But it was unfair to blame his lapse on Minnie, he was frank with himself; he had wanted her and now he would have to be careful not to rouse her quick temper as he ended their liaison. As in all situations he wished to disengage from, Davie thought it best to laugh his way out.
‘Listen, pet,’ he crouched down on his haunches and gave a disarming smile, ‘don’t let’s fall out about it. We’ve had a good time, haven’t we? It can’t go on for ever, but. I’ve got Iris and you’ve got Bomber - that’s the way it is.’
‘But I want you, Davie.’ Minnie almost choked with the disappointment rising in her throat; she knew she was about to lose him for good. Jack began to cry again and she jostled him distractedly.
Davie took her hand as if she were a child who needed reassuring. ‘I’ve had a canny time,’ he told her. ‘You’re a bonny lass, I won’t deny it. But all this was just a bit of fun, wasn’t it? That’s what you said when it started - you just wanted a bit of fun.’
Minnie was stung by the reminder of her own words. That was exactly what it had been at the beginning. But some time during those two weeks she had stepped over the line from wanting to needing. She craved Davie Kirkup as if he were the pink sarsaparillas in the sweet jar that she could never afford as a child. To see him now was to be reminded that he was already out of her reach. Nevertheless, she was not going to make a fool of herself over him.
Minnie withdrew her hand from his and stood up with Jack slung on her hip. Looking down on her lover she felt less at a disadvantage.
‘The girls are getting a lift to a farm over-by tomorrow,’ she said dully. ‘I’ll go with them and walk home from there.’
Davie nodded, pleased with her acquiescence. ‘Aye, best not to be seen together, like.’ Minnie looked at him sharply but said nothing. As he stood, Davie added, ‘Bet your Bomber’ll be looking out for you - after all those lonely nights in the nick.’
It was meant as a casual remark, just something to say, but at the mention of Bomber’s name, Minnie’s anger was pricked. It burst at Davie like hydrogen gas.
‘How dare you throw Bomber in my face, Davie Kirkup?’ she shouted. ‘Don’t go telling me where my place is now you have no further use for me! You men are all the same - you take what you want and throw away what’s left. You’re a bastard, Davie Kirkup, so you are! Iris Ramshaw’s welcome to you!’
Davie watched her, stunned, as her green eyes strafed him furiously and the words exploded like accusing bullets. All at once he was frightened by Minnie’s wrath. He backed off, a hand keeping her at bay.
‘Don’t worry, I’m off,’ he answered and turned his back. He marched away quickly and vaulted the gate, leaving her fuming in the deserted field.
‘Good riddance!’ Minnie bawled at the sky, and the scavenging black crows circling above screamed in accord.
Early one morning, Louie woke to see Sam pulling on his work clothes.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked sleepily.
The one in the dene?’ Louie queried.
‘Aye,’ Sam nodded, tying the string that held his pit boots together. ‘We’re going to have a look while it’s quiet.’
‘Won’t it be in a dangerous state?’ Louie asked anxiously.
‘We won’t take any risks.’ Sam pecked her cheek. Louie looked at him resignedly, knowing he would go to great risks to provide them with fuel and realising she could do nothing to stop him.
‘There’s some stotty in the pantry,’ Louie whispered. Sam found the stale squat piece of bread and began munching it before he was out of the house.
‘Take care,’ Louie called quietly as he let himself out of the back door.
The streets were empty as Sam stole through the village, to his ears his boots clanging like a soldier’s the more he tried to creep unnoticed. He and John and Eb had decided they should explore the old mine on their own. If there was coal to be gleaned, the police must not know of their activities, so the fewer people who knew, the better. It had been Jacob Kirkup who had made the suggestion, provoked out of his law-abiding stance at the sight of his wife’s failing health and his family’s daily hunger.
‘They say it used to be worked before the deep mines were sunk,’ he had told Sam. ‘Most of the men around here don’t know of its existence - it’s been closed a long while.’
‘That’s right,’ Fanny had confirmed. ‘I remember my grandfather telling me he worked there when he had a pony. I’d quite forgotten.’
‘Can you remember whereabouts it was?’ Sam had questioned.
Fanny had shaken her head, then a memory flickered briefly. ‘Somewhere in the woods,’ she had added tentatively. ‘It goes under Whitton Common and the entrance was in the woods.’
A soft, damp mist hung over the dene like net curtains, hiding the trees and stream from view. Eb and John were waiting for him by the railway track that ran parallel to the cindered pathway. At Sam’s, suggestion they had agreed to bring Bomber in on their plans. Another two minutes of waiting in the chilly echoing air brought their redheaded friend out of the mist.
‘This way,’ Eb directed, and they followed him closely. Once they were further away from the village and the dene became more overgrown with brambles and trees, Eb stopped by a high wall. It marked what was locally viewed as the boundary between the common land and the private preserve of the Seward-Scotts. A stark notice was nailed to an overhanging tree, warning the world to keep out. Eb swung himself up on a branch and dropped over the far side of the wall. The others followed.
A few yards away on the forbidden side, a shallow cave mouth gaped at them. The branches of a large honeysuckle hung down obscuring most of the entrance, but someone had recently cleared enough undergrowth to reveal the forgotten drift mine. Beneath the roots and dead foliage it was possible to see where the makeshift tracks had disgorged their truckloads of coal. The markings disappeared into the trees like ghostly footprints from another era.
‘How the heck did you find this?’ Sam asked with admiration.
Eb omitted to tell them that Eleanor had known of its whereabouts since childhood games of hide and seek with her brother Rupert. ‘Had a scout around,’ he answered vaguely.
‘Gan on then,’ Bomber said impatiently and ducked into the opening. Eb hesitated, his dread of underground welling up and threatening to overpower him like mustard gas.
‘You stay out and keep guard.’ Sam touched his arm briefly and headed after his mate. John followed.
Inside the mouth of the mine, Sam lit his lamp. The walls dripped wet and glistened in the flickering light. Ahead the way appeared to be blocked.
‘There’s a bit of loose coal lying about,’ he told his friends.
‘Aye, but the mine’s caved in,’ Bomber concluded gloomily.
‘We can but try,’ Sam said doggedly. There’s enough here to fill a couple of barrows, then we’ll dig a bit further in.’
They went back to the wall where they had left their crude picks and shovels. What hewing they did would be without the aid of any drills or explosives. Eb fetched the barrow they had hidden in the brambles. He had worked out that they could wheel a barrow of coal uphill to where the wall petered out on the brow of the Common and then down through Whitton Woods. It would be a long way round, but the coal was too heavy to lift over the wall, which was anyhow too close to the main path through the dene; they might draw the attention of an observant policeman.
All day the three men worked in the old mine, discarding their jackets and shirts in the sun as they sweated in the confines of the tunnel. Eb wheeled barrowfuls of the mediocre coal up through the trees and deposited it in a heap under an oak tree not far from the allotments, covering the booty with dead branches and brambles. Later in the day, the men heaped the coal into prams and knapsacks and headed for home.
That night the Kirkups and Ritsons enjoyed the heat of a real fire and Louie was able to cook a hot meal of baked potatoes and pea soup, even though the coal was of poor quality. Sam was ravenous after a hard day’s work, and Louie rejoiced to see him in such good spirits, fired by their successful grafting.
The next day they struck their way further into the mine, risking the wrath of the hillside in shaking it awake. Bomber was nearly caught by a shower of stones, but, his instinct for danger still intact, managed to roll out of harm. That evening, they had coal to spare for the Kirkups’ neighbours, the Parkins, as well as Clara Dobson and her daughters. Bomber took coal home for his parents and a couple of bucketfuls for Minnie’s mother. Sam had plans for distributing the illicit coal around the village.
‘We’ll let a few more lads into the drift,’ he said, throwing his pick into the cut they were making. ‘There’s enough coal here to last us well into the autumn. We’ll win this strike yet,’ he predicted determinedly.
Word was beginning to spread about this new source of fuel; children were paid in sweets to keep watch along the dene and to take the coal away under the pretence of pushing babies in their prams. Wilfred Parkin and Johnny Pearson came to help, as did Pat, a brother of Minnie’s. For a week the working of the old drift mine and the distribution of its treasure went successfully. Then PC Turnbull caught Sadie Kirkup and Frank Robson climbing out of Whitton Woods, a bag of coal at the foot of the wall where they had thrown it.
‘Where d’you get that from?’ the young policeman demanded suspiciously. Frank’s freckled face turned a guilty puce and he froze against the wall where he had dropped. Sadie slithered down after him.
‘Get what?’ she asked innocently.
That coal, you cheeky lass.’ Turnbull pointed aggressively.
‘It’s nothing to do with us, mister,’ Frank insisted.
‘You little liar.’ The policeman took a threatening step towards the skinny boy, yet he seemed unsure what to do next.
‘The wood fairies must have left it.’ Sadie stepped between them, giving the constable a fey smile. ‘Wasn’t that kind of them?’
Alfred Turnbull gawped at her for a moment as if he could not quite believe his own ears. Sadie glanced round and gave Frank a quick nod; the next second they turned on their heels and were fleeing up the lane. The policeman hesitated a fraction too long, reluctant to let them go, yet more interested in collecting the evidence of their theft. He let them escape.
Hauling the shopping bag of coal on to the handlebars of his bicycle, he thought how pleased Superintendent MacGuire would be with his vigilance; the officer dealt toughly with those who stole. The young constable was certain the children were only carrying the coal for others, men who had found some illegal source and were pilfering from the Seward-Scotts. Perhaps Mr Reginald himself would be interested in the discovery and grateful to a conscientious young policeman eager to make his way in the force. PC Turnbull mounted unstea
dily with the top-heavy basket and pedalled for the police station.
Eb was taking a break outside the mine opening, sketching on a scrap of old newspaper, when MacGuire appeared with Alfred Turnbull. There was no warning of their coming; the children had gone off to play in the stream and he had been too absorbed in his drawing to hear them approach, truncheons in hand. It was late afternoon and only Sam and John remained inside the mine, oblivious to their ensnarement.
Eb rose cautiously to his feet, dropping his pencil and reaching defensively for his discarded shovel, meeting the policemen with a wary gaze.
‘What’s going on here, then?’ MacGuire demanded stonily, pointing at the mine entrance. The muffled ring of iron on stone disturbed the tranquil peace of the woods. Eb knew he could not bluff his way out of the situation.
‘What does it look like?’ he answered levelly.
‘It looks like trespass and removal of Seward property,’ MacGuire thundered back. ‘You’re facing another prison sentence if you continue your thieving, Eb Kirkup - you of all people!’
‘The Seward-Scotts have no use for the dregs in the drift,’ Eb countered in a quiet, deliberate voice, appealing to the older man. ‘Our families need the fuel. You know how damp the houses get with no fire in the grate - and they’ve got nothing to cook with unless we get them this coal.’
‘We can’t turn a blind eye to this sort of carry-on,’ Robert MacGuire said uncomfortably.
‘Who’s in there?’ Alfred Turnbull jabbed a thumb towards the drift mine. ‘I’ve heard it’s Red Sam Ritson who’s the ringleader,’ he sneered. ‘Nowt but a Bolshie criminal.’ Eb gave him a look of disdain; young Turnbull was gaining himself a name as a stirrer of trouble since the picket line clash. Eb gave no answer.