Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘No it doesn’t.’ Eleanor leaned towards him and clutched his hands. ‘It’s the way I feel too.’ She continued reflectively, ‘At first I thought I was drawn to you because you reminded me of my brother Rupert - you were an echo of the past. But it didn’t take me long to realise I wanted you for yourself - I fell in love with you, Eb. Believe me, I tried not to - it seemed such a hopeless situation - the lady at the manor and the lowly collier and all that nonsense!’ Her laugh was self-deprecatory. ‘But here we are against all the odds.’

  ‘You put it much better than I can,’ Eb told her with a smile, ‘but you speak for us both.’ Gripping her hands tight, he pulled her close to him and brushed her face with his lips. Eleanor’s mouth parted and they came together in an eager kiss.

  Slipping back on to the tufted heath, the spiky gorse providing a discreet screen, they gave in to the passion they had kept in check for so long. Seared with longing, the two of them gave vent to their feelings under the impassive cloudless sky. Eleanor wept with delight at Eb’s caressings, her body waking up from its long winter of neglect and rejection. In his arms she whispered her love to the surrounding insects and curious skylark, craving the final intimacy with this strong-limbed man.

  Eb lay back trembling from the force of their lovemaking and gently kissed Eleanor’s forehead. ‘What now?’ he wondered aloud.

  Eleanor leaned into his firm shoulder. ‘We talk about nature, read poetry and make love again,’ she replied dreamily.

  Eb laughed and let his fingers stroke her arm where he held her. ‘Which first?’ he demanded. She raised her lips to his once more in reply.

  Later, Eleanor pulled on her blouse as a breeze stole down from the hilltops and cooled their zeal for each other. She propped herself against Eb’s supine body.

  ‘I want to read you a poem,’ she told him. ‘It’s the last one that Rupert wrote as far as I know.’ Eb watched her reach into the knapsack and unfold a fragile piece of paper covered in leaping handwriting. ‘I’ve always been unsure whether to let you hear it,’ she confessed, ‘but now I want you to.’

  Eb closed his eyes and basked in the temperate sun and the quiet emotion of Eleanor’s clear voice as she recited Rupert’s final poem, ‘The Hungry Hills’. He listened to the nostalgic thoughts of a homesick boy far from home, dreaming about the glories of the countryside around Whitton Grange as Eb himself had done all those years ago. When Eleanor had finished, they remained wrapped in the silence of her dead brother’s haunting words.

  Finally Eb said, ‘How quickly men grow old in war. It seems your brother knew he was going to die and yet he accepted it.’

  He sat up, wishing to shake off the suddenly subdued mood that gripped them. Eleanor had tears on her cheeks. He brushed them away with his rough-skinned hands.

  ‘The words always make me feel so guilty,’ Eleanor whispered. ‘Rupert should have lived to enjoy all this.’ She swept the vista with her hands.

  ‘At least he knew of such a place,’ Eb comforted. He squeezed her slim shoulder. ‘These are our hills now, Eleanor,’ he added throatily. ‘They’re for the living.’

  They reached for each other in a tender kiss, for a while longer shutting out the creeping, anxious thoughts of what lay beyond that moment.

  Louie took great care in folding Sadie’s new school blouse and skirt into the modest parcel she was packing for her journey into Durham. She ran her fingers over the shiny satchel Eb had bought and held it to her nose to breathe in the expensive odour of new leather. How she would miss the chattering and affectionate girl who had helped make her life bearable since her baby’s death. Sadie was already at Hawthorn Street having a meagre farewell breakfast before Louie walked her to the Durham Road. Davie had volunteered to take their young cousin into Durham, Sam having arranged for them to cadge a lift into town with Mr Armstrong, the shopkeeper in Mill Terrace.

  Sam would not be there himself. He was organising a picket at the gates of the Eleanor and Beatrice pits, which had opened for business. A dozen men had returned to work that week amid a storm of protest and abuse from their former workmates. The solid ranks of resistance had been breached and the fight was threatening to turn in on itself. Louie shuddered at the implications of the blacklegs’ action, listening with bitterness to the unaccustomed clank of the pithead gear once more in motion at the top of the street.

  Unexpectedly Minnie appeared in the doorway. The cut lip and black eye that Bomber had given her on her return from the farm had almost healed. A yellowish hue stained her left brow-bone above her lacklustre green eyes. Louie had found her friend strangely subdued these past weeks, as if her husband’s violent temper at her truancy had extinguished her natural spark. It distressed her that Bomber had sunk to physical violence against Minnie, but Sam had told her not to interfere between husband and wife.

  ‘Need a hand with anything?’ Minnie asked without enthusiasm.

  ‘No ta,’ Louie responded briskly, to hide the sick emptiness she felt inside. ‘I’m nearly done.’ She folded the flaps of a grocery box around the sheets and clothing Sadie was taking with her, and tied the parcel up with string. ‘Davie’ll be here any minute to carry this lot.’

  ‘Will he?’ Minnie asked with too studied an indifference.

  Louie glanced up quickly, a vague uneasiness worrying at the back of her mind. Minnie’s face, recently the colour of tallow, was growing pink at the mention of her brother’s name.

  ‘Aye.’ Louie scrutinised the other woman’s face. Minnie’s unguarded look betrayed her eagerness. ‘Where’s Jack?’ Louie asked pointedly.

  ‘With Margaret,’ her friend answered quickly. ‘I’ll walk down the village with you and Davie.’

  ‘What happened at Stand High Farm between you?’ Louie asked abruptly. Minnie suddenly crumpled on to a kitchen chair, her head sagging like a marionette’s.

  Realisation came to Louie as if a blindfold had been loosened from her eyes. She could read Minnie’s face all too well and it was guilt-ridden; yet she clearly could not deny herself this chance of a brief moment in Davie’s company. Louie had known her schoolfriend had always admired her elder brother, but surely she was wrong in thinking something illicit had happened between them while they had been away from Whitton? Louie grew hot at the thought that she had virtually thrown them together in her desire to get Minnie and Jack out of her sight while she came to terms with her grief. She waited to hear Minnie’s denial, but none came.

  ‘It just happened,’ Minnie replied, and burst into tears. Louie felt as if her stomach was weighted with stone. She could not go to her friend or offer comfort.

  ‘Oh, Minnie!’ Louie breathed out her disappointment. ‘How could you?’

  ‘I’m that unhappy about it,’ Minnie tried to explain, ‘but I still love him.’

  Louie’s disbelief gave way to anger. ‘Get yourself home this minute, Minnie Bell, back to your husband and your bairn,’ she ordered. ‘I don’t want you here when Davie comes, do you hear?’

  The harshness of Louie’s words seemed to jolt Minnie out of her self-pity. She stood up and wiped her nose on her sleeve. ‘I didn’t expect you to understand.’ Minnie tossed her head. ‘You don’t know what it’s like being married to a man who knocks you around. Your Sam’s Mister Perfect.’ She threw Louie a bitter look. ‘Well, for just a few weeks I had a bit of fun too, and I don’t regret a minute of it.’

  Louie turned her back and said nothing more, deliberately continuing with her packing. She heard Minnie leave. Calming herself, she untied her apron and hung it on the back of the door. She combed her hair, fixed on her hat and buttoned up her cardigan. Minutes later Davie tramped in at the back door; Louie did not know if he had passed Minnie on the way or if words had been exchanged.

  Tight-lipped and still fuming about Minnie’s revelation, she answered Davie’s banter with curt instructions and a frosty look. Davie attributed his sister’s tense behaviour to her unhappiness at parting with Sadie.

  ‘She’ll
be back on Friday,’ he teased. ‘You would think the lass was going off to Australia to look at your long face.’ Davie gave Louie a quick hug. She brushed him off.

  ‘Mind you bring Iris and Raymond back with you,’ she answered shortly.

  ‘They’ll have to come home.’ Davie was optimistic. ‘There’ll not be room for them at the Ramshaws’ once Sadie’s there.’

  ‘Good,’ Louie replied and marched out of the house. Davie shook his head, baffled by his sister’s sudden concern for Iris. Still, it pleased him to think Louie missed his wife and son too, and he visibly brightened at the pleasant thought of seeing them again.

  Reginald called at Hopkinson’s house on his way home from a day’s riding at Waterloo Bridge. His agent, who lived in the largest of the solid brick houses whose gardens straddled the dene, had indicated there was something of importance he wished to discuss. A bachelor who lived with his sister, Hopkinson had a propensity for brown paint; the doors, windowsills and skirting boards were daubed in a uniform chocolate brown, with faded cream and green wallpaper from another era. Reginald was ushered by a housemaid into the drawing room where his agent was hovering among the potted plants and heavy mahogany furniture. The room smelt of polish and a faint odour of gas from the unlit lamps.

  ‘This had better be urgent,’ Reginald told the grey-faced man bluntly. ‘I’ve declined dinner at Fisher’s to come here.’

  Hopkinson drew his shoulders up stiffly. ‘I merely wanted to report on that matter you asked me to look into,’ he answered in his dry, clipped voice, ‘that matter about Mrs Seward-Scott’s companions.’ Reginald’s eyes lit up with interest. Before continuing, his host paused to pour them both a whisky from a cut-glass decanter. Reginald took a glass and swigged greedily at the strong liquid.

  ‘Well then?’ he asked impatiently.

  Hopkinson sucked in his thin cheeks and sipped at his own drink. ‘Mrs Seward-Scott is rumoured to be friendly with the Kirkup family—’

  ‘I know that,’ Reginald interrupted brusquely. ‘She’s made no secret of it, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Particularly friendly with a certain Ebenezer Kirkup,’ Hopkinson went on, unruffled by his employer’s rudeness, ‘the eldest son.’

  Reginald took a more considered sip of his whisky. ‘Go on,’ he ordered.

  ‘Ebenezer is a war hero - stretcher-bearer in the Fifteenth - decorated for pulling an officer from a crater under persistent enemy fire—’

  ‘I don’t need a history of the man,’ Reginald said testily. ‘What is his relationship with my wife?’

  Hopkinson coughed uneasily. ‘There may be nothing in it,’ he cautioned, ‘but they have been seen walking together over the Common.’ He hesitated. ‘Mrs Seward-Scott has also given him lifts in her motor car.’

  Reginald’s brow furrowed in annoyance. ‘Does he work for us?’ he snapped.

  ‘No,’ his agent replied. ‘He has been out of full-time employment for a couple of years - took a scunner to working underground after the war.’

  ‘Probably just one of Eleanor’s lame ducks,’ Reginald grunted.

  ‘He tends Dr Joice’s garden from time to time,’ the older man remarked.

  ‘Does he?’ the mine owner said with a tightening of his jaw. ‘So no doubt Isobel Joice knows of this liaison.’ He finished his drink quickly. ‘I want them watched continually,’ Reginald determined, ‘and I want to know as much about this failed miner as there is to know. I’ll not have him making a fool of my wife.’

  Hopkinson looked at him unhappily. ‘Would it not be better to hire someone more suited to the job of detective?’ he asked peevishly. ‘I find the whole thing rather -’ He floundered for an acceptable word.

  ‘Distasteful?’ Reginald supplied it.

  ‘Well - yes.’ The agent coughed.

  ‘I trust you,’ his employer answered frankly, ‘and I know that what is discussed between us is quite confidential. Do as I ask, and you’ll be well rewarded.’ He picked up his hat, discarded on the green velvet sofa. ‘In the meantime, we keep our suspicions to ourselves, is that understood?’

  Hopkinson nodded grimly and placed his half-finished whisky on a side table as he showed the tall mine owner to the door. He found such matters as marital intrigue and infidelity quite incomprehensible; they merely muddied the clear waters of commerce and business endeavour. Still, Reginald Seward-Scott was his paymaster and if he wished to pin the accusation of adultery on his haughty wife, then he, Hopkinson, would strive to find him the evidence.

  Iris had persuaded her father to let her go to the Saturday matinee of Barny’s touring players, and, for the first time in ages, she sat in a dimmed auditorium, albeit on a hard hall chair, and watched the magic of a theatrical performance. She gasped at the dancers, cried at the crooner’s sentimental songs, howled at Barny’s jokes and clapped the magician. For two hours she left behind the dreary world outside the half-empty hall, forgot the pub and her family, forgot the troubles of Whitton Grange, even emptied her head of Davie and Raymond.

  So afterwards, when she was about to seek out her new acquaintances backstage, it was a shock to find Davie barging his way across the hall to meet her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, momentarily taken aback.

  ‘I’ve brought Sadie in. I might have guessed you’d have left the bairn to come and watch a bunch of second-rate actors,’ Davie grumbled.

  ‘They were very good,’ Iris defended them body, ‘and it’s the first time I’ve had a minute to myself all week. I’m entitled to an hour off, aren’t I? If I’m not serving pints, I’m changing and washing nappies or skivvying for my mam. The past two weeks haven’t exactly been a holiday.’

  ‘Well, you needn’t worry about the bar any longer.’ Davie took hold of her hand fiercely. ‘You’re coming home with me - you and the bairn. I’m not having my wife working for anyone. You belong back in Whitton with me.’ Iris gawped at him; she had never heard Davie so riled over her before. People making for the exit were casting interested glances at the impending row.

  ‘Don’t boss me around,’ Iris blazed back. ‘You’re hurting my hand.’ At that moment Barny approached them up the aisle, his face still caked in lurid make-up.

  ‘Giving you trouble is he?’ the small comic asked. ‘No need for harsh words, young man. Go quietly - there’s a good lad.’

  ‘And who the hell are you?’ Davie rounded on the odd little man.

  ‘Barnfather’s the name - Barny to my friends.’ He smiled an exaggerated red and white grimace.

  ‘Well, Barnfather,’ Davie shouted, ‘you can go and—’

  ‘Davie, shut up!’ Iris cut off her husband’s obscenities. ‘I’m sorry, Barny, this is my husband. We can settle our own arguments, ta all the same.’

  ‘There’s nothing to argue about,’ Davie answered aggressively. ‘Iris is coming home with me now.’

  He had not meant to lose his temper with his wife, but the disappointment of not finding her at home, compounded by his annoyance at seeing her watching the entertainment with rapture on her slim, pretty face, had lit the slow fuse to his anger. He was filled with a dread of the power of these actors to cast their spell over Iris and lead her away from him forever.

  Iris struggled out of his hold. ‘No, Davie, this time I’m not coming home - not as long as we’ve no home of our own and no money and no food. I’m not going to bed at night with an empty stomach again - I’m not prepared to see Raymond running around with no shoes on. I want a proper home of my own. I want a new dress without patches in it, I want money to go to the pictures once in a while. I want a husband who’s in work, Davie!’

  Davie and Barny stared at her passionate face in awe.

  ‘I want all those things too,’ Davie insisted, his anger blown over as soon as it had come. ‘We’ll have all you want once the strike is over and they’re taking lads on at the pit again.’

  ‘They’re taking lads on now,’ Iris reminded him pointedly, ‘and they’re offering a
fortnight’s bonus on top of normal wages for those who’ll work - I’ve read it in the paper.’

  ‘I couldn’t scab,’ Davie answered miserably. Lately, Tadger Brown had been whispering of such temptation, but Davie had closed his ears. Iris looked at him hopelessly.

  ‘It’s either that or I don’t come home, Davie,’ she said flatly. ‘Barny’s offered to take me on - and I’ll go if you won’t give us the home me and Raymond deserve.’

  Davie was shocked by her words. He knew he had failed her as a husband; they had nothing of their own, not even a bed; any money he had come by had gone on beer and Woodbines and pitch and toss with his mates. He had even lain with another woman that summer while Iris worked in Louie’s soup kitchen and sang on stage to raise money for his people. Remorse twisted his insides like a knife.

  Barny looked from Davie to Iris, unembarrassed, as if watching a gripping play in whose outcome he was mildly interested.

  ‘Just shove off, will you?’ Davie turned on him with exasperation. Barny winked at Iris.

  ‘If you need me,’ he said with a cock of his head, ‘backstage.’ He left them alone.

  ‘Iris,’ Davie began, his mind in a turmoil of indecision, ‘if I go back down the pit, they’d give us a hard time of it - folk wouldn’t speak to us.’

  Iris saw him wavering and pressed her advantage. ‘I’ll stand by you whatever they say,’ she promised, ‘and I don’t care what they call me as long as my bairn is clothed and fed properly and we have a home of our own.’

  Davie drew courage from the determined look in his wife’s eyes. Life might be rough for a bit, he thought, but things would calm down eventually as more and more of them returned to work. Only fanatics like Sam Ritson thought they could still win the strike; most of the pitmen knew they were in the last throes of defeat. It was a matter of being practical and thinking of the future, like Iris was. Whatever happened he would still have her and Raymond.

  With that thought to console him, Davie sighed heavily. ‘All right, bonny lass, I’ll go and see Naylor on Monday.’