Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  The old superintendent seemed unsure what to do next, but his eager constable was set for confrontation, willing to take on these men who dared to undermine the lock-out.

  ‘Well, if you won’t tell us who they are, we’ll just have to make them come out,’ he said savagely. ‘We’ll knock a few pit props away and see how they like it.’

  As he stepped forward, Eb thrust himself between the policeman and the drift opening. Turnbull was all of his height but he was no match for Eb’s brawny strength. Eb pushed the shovel against the young man’s uniformed chest.

  ‘Go any nearer that pit and I’ll kill you,’ he threatened in a low voice full of fury.

  Alfred Turnbull turned red with indignation. ‘Do you hear that, sir?’ He called for his superior’s intervention. ‘Kirkup’s threatening assault. That’s another charge we’ll get him on. Didn’t you get long enough in gaol last time, eh?’ he taunted.

  ‘That’s enough, Alfred,’ MacGuire ordered, aware of the pent-up violence in Eb’s taut arms. He believed at that moment the war-scarred miner would go to any lengths to protect his friends inside the drift. ‘We’ll give you ten minutes to clear out of here and stay out of here,’ he continued bullishly. ‘I never want to see anyone this side of the dene wall again. The next person I find trespassing will swing for it. Do you understand?’ he growled.

  Eb said nothing, but stepped back and relaxed the grip on his spade.

  ‘You’re not going to let them get away with it?’ Turnbull gasped in disbelief at his own humiliation.

  ‘Belt up and follow me,’ MacGuire snapped at the belligerent young man. ‘I want to hear no more about this.’

  With that, the superintendent strode from the woodland clearing, his face tight with anger; anger at his constable’s behaviour, at the pitman’s contemptuous defiance, and at this bitter strike that was rending his community apart. It sickened him that he had to threaten Eb Kirkup, a war veteran who had gained the Military Medal for bravery, for grubbing on Seward land for a handful of coal.

  Alfred Turnbull threw a look of loathing towards Eb as he reluctantly withdrew, kicking a heap of clothes discarded by the hewers into the adjacent stream in a last spiteful gesture. Eb watched them leave with relief. It was a blow to their fight for survival that their working of the drift mine had been uncovered, but he was thankful that MacGuire had decided to be lenient with them on this occasion. He did not trust young Turnbull, though, and foresaw further trouble from the quarrelsome policeman. Grimly, he turned and braced himself to enter the claustrophobic mine to alert Sam and John to the bad news.

  ***

  That night Davie came home. Whistling, he sauntered through the back door to find 28 Hawthorn Street deserted. Dashed by the lack of welcome he knocked on Edie Parkin’s door to discover the whereabouts of his family.

  ‘They’re all at the entertainment,’ Edie told him, ‘for the Relief Fund. Been practising all week - heard them through the wall. I’d have gone, but Mr Parkin’s bad with his chest and—’

  ‘Iris is there then?’ Davie asked impatiently, cutting the neighbour short.

  ‘Aye, she’s singing in it, didn’t you know?’ Edie answered with a direct look.

  ‘No, how could I?’ Davie replied rather crossly. ‘Where’s it on at, Mrs Parkin?’

  ‘Chapel hall.’ Edie crossed her arms and Davie noticed how the skin wrinkled loose about her wrists. He thanked her and took off out of the yard gate. ‘Grand to see you back,’ Edie called after him. ‘Not before time, mind you.’

  By the time Davie reached the hall in North Street the show was into its second half. Pushing his way into the spartan, crowded room with the audience squeezed on to every available bench and chair, he saw the end of Sadie’s dance with May Little and Jane Pinkney. They were dressed in a bizarre combination of Oriental kimonos and Sunday School hats and shoes, but the applause from the spectators was enthusiastic.

  As they left the stage, beaming, Eb came on with Iris. Davie felt his stomach lurch at the sight of his wife dressed in an expensive fringed frock of black and jade and a fetching green band around her gleaming auburn hair. She was thinner than he had remembered, but her face was suffused with excitement, her red-painted lips parting in a generous smile at the gasps of appreciation from the audience. Davie felt his insides aching at her elfin beauty.

  ‘Mammy!’ a small voice cried from the left of the hall and Davie glanced over to see Raymond standing on Louie’s knee and pointing joyously at his mother up on the big wide stage. Fanny and Jacob sat either side of them, with Sam, Hilda, John and Marjory Hewitson squashed on to the end of the row. For a moment, Davie felt shut out, like a tramp in the cold watching a cosy family scene through a closed window. Then Eb struck up on the piano and Davie’s attention was once more riveted on the singer before him.

  Iris sang a couple of popular songs and then a string of traditional favourites, the audience cheering and whistling for more. She revelled in their adoration, intoxicated by the attention and the sound of her own voice filling the tightly packed hall. She had shaken with nerves right up until the moment she opened her mouth to sing. But Eb had given her arm an encouraging squeeze as they left the shelter of the wings and she had felt his quiet calm infect her body as she took the deep breaths before her performance.

  For an encore she belted out ‘The Lambton Worm’ and Davie’s favourite, ‘Cushy Butterfield’, wondering fleetingly where her truant husband might be.

  As she took her final bows, she dragged Eb from his stool and made him accept the applause too. Scanning the rows in front, Iris saw Eleanor Seward-Scott smiling up at them. To perform in front of such a lady made her feel like a professional singer, dressed as she was in one of Eleanor’s gowns, borrowed for the occasion. Iris was sure that for the rest of her life she would never forget this heady moment of dominating the stage in the dowdy hall; she felt powerful, sensual, loved and famous all at the same time.

  As Iris and Eb left the stage to make way for Frank Robson’s jokes and the Reverend Pinkney’s violin, Davie felt a stab of envy at seeing his vivacious wife, so obviously happy in his absence, disappearing on the arm of his older brother. It seemed an age before the end of the show when all the performers shuffled on stage like a disorganised flock to take their final bows. Children spilled into the aisles and up on to the stage before the minister could finish the evening with a prayer. He shouted his blessing over the chatter of schoolfriends and the wail of tired babies.

  Iris and Eb muscled their way off stage and over to the Kirkups, while Davie fought his way further into the hall against the retreating crowd. His family were chatting excitedly together as if he did not exist, until at last John spotted him climbing over a bench to reach them.

  ‘Look who’s finally decided to show his face,’ he grunted.

  ‘Davie!’ his mother cried with delight and held out her arms to kiss him. Her youngest son warmed at the affectionate greeting and gave her a hug. Raymond looked puzzled and then pointed interestedly at his father.

  ‘Hello, bonny lad.’ Davie swept him from Louie’s hold and kissed him gladly. ‘By, have I missed you, son.’ Louie kissed her brother on the cheek.

  ‘We’ve missed you too,’ she told him.

  ‘Aye, pet.’ Davie gave her a hug with his free arm. ‘I’m sorry about - you know - the baby …’

  ‘Aye.’ Louie nodded and took Raymond back, then quickly changed the subject. ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate Iris on her singing, or did you miss it?’

  Davie turned to his wife. She was watching him with considering green eyes. They were dramatically outlined in black liner, her cheeks flushed pink with energy, her red mouth moist in a tentative half-smile.

  ‘Anybody want to introduce us?’ she quipped. ‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.’

  Hilda smirked and Marjory giggled nervously, wondering if she was about to witness a famous Iris and Davie flare-up. But Davie was contrite and grinned in reply.

  ‘
Can I walk you home?’ He stepped forward and offered Iris his arm.

  ‘You can.’ She kept her voice prim and slipped an arm through her husband’s. The others fell in behind, relieved that the dramatics had been left behind on stage.

  Outside in the dark Davie slipped an arm around Iris’s waist. ‘You were champion up there,’ he told her. ‘I was that proud of you, bonny lass.’

  Iris smiled, pleased at the compliment. Unexpectedly she kissed him on the lips as they walked along. ‘I’m glad you’ve come home, Davie,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve been a right misery without you - everyone will tell you.’ Davie felt guilt clutch at his insides.

  ‘I’ve missed you too, pet.’ He squeezed her waist. ‘I’ll not be going away again.’

  ‘Good,’ Iris smiled and slipped her arm around his back,’ ‘cos I don’t intend letting you out of my sight.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As August waned so did the resolve of some of the pitmen. The miners’ leaders could wrest no concessions from the inflexible mine owners. Instead, the management at the Whitton Grange pits were actively seeking men who were desperate enough to return to work at a reduced wage. To counter their pressure, Sam and Johnny Pearson walked from village to village the length of the valley urging union members to stand together and uphold the strike. Sam would leap up at unofficial meetings, held in the back rooms of pubs and halls to avoid the attentions of the local police, and argue that to give up now would be suicide for their communities.

  ‘We have sacrificed too much to give in to the bullying of the bosses,’ he rallied the worried men. ‘Our families can’t have gone through all this suffering for nothing - we mustn’t let them down now.’

  But rumours were fluttering down the dusty streets that some men were considering a return to work. There was tension in the groups gathering on the street corners, a suspicion of one’s neighbour that kept conversations guarded.

  Raymond fell ill with a stomach complaint that manifested itself in three days of violent sickness and diarrhoea, leaving him weak and fractious. In desperation Iris announced that she was leaving and taking her baby son to her parents in Durham until he was better.

  ‘He needs proper feeding,’ she told Davie defensively. ‘Dr Joice said he’s ill because of his bad diet.’

  ‘I can get him what he needs,’ Davie answered desperately.

  ‘With what?’ Iris rounded on him.

  ‘I’ll steal if I have to,’ Davie replied lamely.

  ‘And land yourself in prison again?’ Iris scoffed. ‘A fat lot of use you’d be to us then.’

  ‘I don’t want you to go away to Durham again.’ Davie’s thin face pleaded with her forlornly. ‘You said you wanted us to be together from now on.’

  Iris sighed and sat down on their bed in the parlour, a half-packed bag at her feet. ‘I do want us to be together,’ she said more calmly. ‘If only you’d let me speak to Mrs Seward-Scott -’

  ‘No!’ Davie was adamant. He scratched his bristly head in agitation. ‘We’re not going begging to her again - I’ll not be beholden.’

  ‘Well, if you won’t take her money, the only other choice is to go back to work, can’t you see that, Davie?’ Iris pleaded.

  ‘Don’t ask me to do that, Iris,’ Davie answered shocked. ‘I’ll not betray my family.’

  ‘We’re your family now, Davie,’ Iris shouted back, ‘and I’ll not see Raymond starve to death!’ She stood up and continued throwing clothes into the canvas bag.

  She left later that morning, pawning her cameo brooch on the way to the station to pay for the train fare into Durham.

  Her mother, delighted to see her grandson, fussed over the sickly child. ‘We’ll make you right as rain, little pet,’ she crooned over the small boy. Iris’s brothers and sisters, pleased to see their married sibling, plagued her with questions about Sadie, curious to discover more about the young girl who was shortly coming to live with them.

  In the evenings, Iris helped out in the pub. Business was slack and the publican had had to lay off his two barmaids, but he was glad of Iris’s company. Some nights the regular patrons would persuade Ramshaw’s pretty daughter to sing at the piano in the back room, and her lively renditions of traditional local songs became so popular that the Market Inn soon boasted a reputation for entertainment, attracting others to come to sing or play the piano in the smoky intimacy of the snug. The portly Ramshaw was pleased with his eldest daughter for swelling the numbers of drinkers in his bar, and by her second week home he had begun to advertise her performances in the local newspaper.

  One evening, a group of travelling players came in to refresh themselves after a show in a nearby hall. After hearing Iris sing, a wiry middle-aged man with grey hair sprouting from his cheekbones and a bluish tinge to his shaven chin approached the young woman. She half recognised his darting hooded eyes.

  ‘Name’s Barnfather,’ he put out his hand. Iris shook it with an enquiring smile. ‘Friends call me Barny.’

  ‘We’ve met before,’ Iris smiled at the small, energetic man before her.

  ‘Whitley Bay,’ Barny replied, ‘couple of years back - talent contest - you won. Your voice has come on since then - lovely singer.’ He rattled out his praise in short, quick sentences.

  ‘Ta very much.’ Iris grinned with pleasure. ‘I remember you now. You were working the beaches with Columbine and Pierrot, weren’t you?’

  ‘Still am,’ Barny laughed, croaky as a crow. ‘Town halls, palaces, pier ends - any place that’ll take us.’ He jerked his head towards his companions. ‘Come and have a drink with us.’

  ‘I wish I could, but I’m serving here,’ Iris explained. ‘This is my dad’s pub.’

  Barny whistled through nicotined teeth. ‘What a waste - you should be singing for a living. We’re looking for a singer and tap-dancer to take Lavinia’s place.’

  ‘What happened to Lavinia?’ Iris asked, amused and flattered by his offer.

  ‘Ran off with a Latvian tailor,’ Barny remarked. ‘Said he always had her in stitches!’ Iris laughed, unsure if this was the truth or just a joke from Barny’s comic routine.

  ‘Sorry, I’m the stay-at-home kind,’ Iris answered wistfully.

  ‘Well, if you ever get the urge,’ Barny winked, ‘let me know.’ As he turned away he thought to add, ‘The Laughing Duck, Scarborough - they always know where I am - you can leave a message there.’

  ‘How long are you in town?’ Iris asked on impulse.

  ‘End of the week,’ Barny told her.

  ‘I’ll come and see you if I get a night off,’ Iris promised with a smile. A night of entertainment away from all her cares would be just the tonic she needed.

  ‘Say you’re a friend of Barny’s - they’ll let you in free,’ the man assured her. ‘Come backstage afterwards - meet the troupe - smell the greasepaint - show you the ropes,’ he offered. Iris nodded as her attention was called by two becapped customers. She returned to serving drinks.

  It was a still day in early September, the kind when summer lingers on in mellow sunshine and yellow fields shorn of wheat. A smell of dewy grass and ripening briars hung in the woods as Eb made his way up to the Common to meet Eleanor. He had a notebook of watercolours to show her, scenes of the countryside they had explored together over the past two months. Despite the hunger and misery surrounding him in the village below, this summer had been liberating for Eb. He had found his love for the squire’s wife growing and strengthening. Eleanor had shared her friendship and quiet passion and given him a new-found confidence in himself. Above all she had convinced him of his ability to paint; out of the wreckage of his post-war existence had sprung this creativity that was gradually redeeming his life.

  Eleanor was wearing hiking shoes and a purple skirt and matching short-sleeved blouse. Apart from a silver brooch, her appearance lacked adornment. Her short, dark hair was uncovered and the summer sun had toasted her pale face to a healthy tan. Eb thought how girlish and unsophisticated she seemed stre
tching out eagerly to meet him.

  ‘Let’s walk for a bit.’ She smiled and took his hand unselfconsciously. They hiked across the Common and headed west, avoiding any pockets of habitation. For two hours they walked and talked, listened and were silent, enjoying the pale azure of the sky and the balmy, breathless air around them. At a dip in the hillside they scrambled down to a stream hidden by mossy banks and drank thirstily of the icy bubbling water. Throwing down her knapsack, Eleanor sank behind a screen of gorse bushes and unpacked the picnic. Mrs Dennison had made up a flask of hot coffee, salmon and mayonnaise sandwiches and chocolate cake. The amiable cook never questioned why her mistress had taken to eating lunch out in the open so much over the summer months. Eleanor watched with satisfaction as Eb tucked in enthusiastically.

  ‘Let me see these paintings then,’ Eleanor said as the last of the sandwiches was devoured. Eb grinned and, reaching into his discarded jacket, pulled out the notebook from inside the patched lining. He spread the pictures over the grass. Eleanor picked them up in turn, nodding and making small grunts of approval.

  ‘This is my favourite.’ She held up a vivid sunset of violent purples and phosphorous yellow battling over the familiar outlines of Whitton Common. ‘It reminds me of when we first used to meet and watch the sun setting.’

  ‘Aye, I often think of those times too,’ Eb admitted. ‘Sometimes I wonder what—’ He stopped his musings abruptly.

  ‘Wonder what?’ Eleanor probed, watching the struggle going on in his vital blue eyes.

  ‘What I’d have done if I hadn’t met you,’ he added in a low mumble.

  ‘Meaning?’ Eleanor asked softly. Eb held her look directly.

  ‘I was dead inside, Eleanor,’ he answered. ‘In Flanders I died a hundred times over.’ She waited as he found the words for which he searched. ‘But with you I’m living again - inside - I’m happy. I know it sounds daft, with all the strife going on around us.’ He dropped his gaze in embarrassment.