As the last of the procession moved through the gates the crowd fell in behind in a solid phalanx of support. Eleanor was struck by the solemn dignity of the whole procession, the eerie silence of a thousand souls gathered to bury their dead. Whatever the divisions wrought by the strike, today all were equal in their sadness and no one withheld their sympathy.
Eleanor and the Joices moved with the procession of followers through the park to the neatly laid-out cemetery. The headstones looked drab with no shaft of sunlight to illuminate the gold lettering on the more elaborate graves. Being the depth of winter, the mounds of earth were unadorned with flowers or shrubs to console the visitors; not even a sparkling hoarfrost clothed the bleakness. Behind them stood the massive black pitheads of the Eleanor and Beatrice and their hump-backs of slag, aloof and oblivious to the destruction they caused.
The churchmen were assembled at the gaping graves and Reverend Hodgson announced the first hymn. The band struck up ‘O God, Our Help in Ages Past’ and all about the pit folk raised their voices in song. So fervent was the singing that the crowd drowned out the musicians. Eventually, those who sang further away lagged a line behind so that the words seemed to echo around the sparse field.
Unexpectedly, Eleanor succumbed to tears at the moving refrain, ‘Time like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away …’ It made her think of the occasions she had sung these words at memorial services on the eleventh of each November for her brother Rupert. How many ghosts of friends did Eb conjure up as he played the hymn? she wondered.
The singing died away and Stephen Pinkney gave a reading, his strong preacher’s voice ringing out over the hushed assembly. Both he and the vicar said prayers and Reverend Hodgson gave a short sermon that Eleanor could hardly catch in the contrary wind. There was a further hymn and then the coffins were laid one by one in the waiting graves.
‘Dust to dust, ashes to ashes,’ the minister said over Davie’s box as the dull thud of earth could be heard hitting the wood. Eleanor saw Iris visibly shrink, and an agonised wail went up as if from a wounded animal. All around the gravesides women were sobbing and children crying inconsolably, while the men stood bowed and tight-faced, fighting to keep their emotions under control.
It seemed to take an age for each coffin to be lowered out of sight and their church leader deliver the final rites. Eleanor thought she would faint from the biting cold and the palpable distress of all around her. If she had not been penned in by the crowd, she would have turned and fled from the misery.
At last the ceremony was over. The mourners were guided away from the grim pits and the gravediggers set to work filling in the mounds of dark soil. One last time, the band spurred the onlookers forward with stout music and the spectators fell back to let them through. This time Eleanor was standing on the side Eb was playing and, as he passed, their eyes held each other for an instant before he was gone. Eleanor thought he registered surprise at seeing her there among the villagers. She had no opportunity to follow him, for by the time the families had shuffled after the players, the crowd broke up and she found herself jostled away from the funeral party.
‘Father wishes to call on the Kirkups for a few minutes,’ Isobel told her as they inched their way out of the cemetery. ‘You could go and wait at Greenbrae until we return - unless you’d like to come too?’ she added cautiously. Eleanor hesitated.
‘Should I?’ she asked, unsure.
‘Iris would appreciate it, I’m certain,’ Isobel encouraged. ‘You’ve been kind to her and Davie - she likes you.’
‘But won’t I embarrass - after all that’s happened - I’m a Seward-Scott in their eyes?’
‘You’re not Reginald.’ Isobel gave a ghost of a smile. ‘Come on, we’ll be brief.’
Eleanor was secretly thankful at her friend’s persuasion and her spirits lifted as they made their way across the village. Turning into Hawthorn Street, they had no difficulty in finding the Kirkups’ house with its throng of callers spilling out into the street.
People stepped aside and conversation dried up as the important visitors arrived. Eleanor felt awkward at their cool deference towards her and for a moment wished she had not come.
‘Miss Eleanor!’ Louie cried in surprise on seeing her enter with the doctor and schoolteacher. ‘How kind of you to call.’
‘I won’t stay long.’ Eleanor flushed at the young woman’s generous greeting. ‘I just wanted to say how very sorry I am about Davie -’
‘You’ll stay for a cup of tea,’ Louie insisted, fussing around them. ‘Iris is through in the front room if you’d like a word.’
Eleanor nodded and moved round the table. Entering the parlour, she saw Davie’s widow sitting on a high-backed chair by a cheery fire, surrounded by family. The subdued talk was punctuated by chatter and occasional bursts of laughter from her brothers and sisters and Sadie who were all playing a board game in the corner of the room.
‘Mrs Seward-Scott.’ Iris’s wan face brightened in a smile at the sight of the unexpected guest.
‘Iris,’ Eleanor went to her and gripped both her hands in hers, ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I’m pleased you came,’ Iris brushed aside the condolence. ‘Davie thought the world of you. He was pleased as punch at the way you befriended us.’
‘I did nothing really.’ Eleanor gulped in embarrassment. ‘I was fond of you both - am fond. You will let me know if there’s anything I can do, won’t you? And I mean anything.’
‘Thank you, miss.’ Iris smiled with pleasure and her hazel eyes filled up with tears. Eleanor withdrew quickly and left her with her family.
Accepting Louie’s cup of tea, she took it out into the yard and waited for her friends. It was a relief to escape the stifling fug in the small house and the press of bodies in the over-furnished parlour. Out here the raw air soon cooled her flushed face and no one else appeared to have sought refuge in the dank yard. Sipping her tea, Eleanor saw Eb trudge in from the lane, his cap removed and his fair face tinged blue with the cold.
He stopped still on seeing her, but soon recovered his composure, aware that others might be watching.
‘Mrs Seward-Scott.’ He nodded respectfully and, stepping nearer, thanked her for calling as if she were just an ordinary neighbour.
‘How are you, Eb?’ Eleanor kept her voice low and even.
‘As well as can be expected,’ he replied guardedly.
Eleanor glanced round to make sure no one could overhear. ‘I know this is not the time or place, but I do need to speak to you.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Eb said, looking the other way.
‘Please, Eb,’ she beseeched.
His jaw clenched and then he gave a grudging, ‘Very well. Meet me at the allotment before dark - I’ll try and get away.’ Not waiting for her assent, Eb turned and disappeared into the house. To Eleanor’s relief, Isobel and her father emerged at the same time and indicated it was time to leave.
‘They’re all being remarkably brave about things,’ Isobel commented as they let themselves out of the back gate.
‘It’s part of being a pitman,’ her father replied. ‘They’re the most resilient men I know.’
Isobel gave him one of her forthright looks. ‘I was thinking of the women, Papa.’
‘Isobel’s right,’ Eleanor agreed. They’re the ones who have to cope with keeping the family together.’
‘Of course,’ Dr Joice acquiesced hastily. ‘My daughter is constantly reminding me which is the stronger sex.’ Father and daughter smiled at each other in sudden amusement and Eleanor felt a twinge of regret that she had allowed herself to grow so apart from her own father.
Louie was washing up the final teacups when Sam came in from the darkness outside. Iris was resting upstairs, her parents were in the parlour with the children and her brothers had gone out on separate errands. Water was boiling on the fire for Sam’s bath and there was bacon ready to cook for his tea. For the first time that day the kitchen was a have
n of peace, but Louie dreaded the time when there was nothing left with which to occupy herself.
Sam approached her at the scullery sink and pecked her lightly on the cheek.
‘Water’s boiling,’ Louie said without looking at him.
‘I called in at Mrs Trewick’s,’ Sam told her, ‘wanted to make sure everything was in order for her insurance payout.’
‘That was good of you.’ Louie could not keep the sarcasm out of her voice. She brushed past him and busied herself with carving a thick slice of bread for frying.
‘How’s Iris?’ Sam asked, hovering next to her, aware of his wife’s hostility.
‘Fine time to ask now.’ Louie suddenly turned on him angrily. ‘Well, she’s tired out after that funeral - we all are - it’s been one of the saddest days of my life. I’ll never forget it - all those people there, but not you - you weren’t there to support us. I’ll never forget that either, Sam! Couldn’t you have swallowed your precious pride for just one day?’
Sam gaped at his wife. Her young face was shadowed in fatigue, her blue eyes narrowed in fury. He felt ashamed at having caused her extra unhappiness; his quarrel had been with Davie not with the woman he loved above all else. He had been meaning to keep silent about his movements that day, but he could not compound Louie’s grief for the sake of his own dignity. Sam forced himself to be humble.
‘I’m sorry, pet.’ He stepped towards her. ‘I should’ve been with you today - for your sake if not for Davie’s.’ Louie remained rigidly silent. ‘I was halfway to Ushaw when I realised my mistake.’
‘What’s done is done,’ Louie replied dismissively and continued to snip the bacon.
‘So I came back,’ Sam persisted. ‘I was too late to leave from the house with you, but I followed in the crowd. I saw your brother buried, Louie,’ Sam said quietly. ‘I paid my respects like the rest of them.’
Louie turned to look into his face, her mouth opening in astonishment. For the first time she saw Sam properly; there was no grime on his face or neck; he had not been down the pit that day. She dropped the scissors and reached out for her husband. Their arms went about each other in a fierce hug.
‘I’m so glad,’ Louie cried into his shoulder. ‘I didn’t want any bad feeling to come between us, Sam, over our Davie.’
‘It won’t,’ Sam promised. ‘I know we’ve had it rough this past year, Louie, but we’ll manage, and I’m proud of the way you’ve been strong for your family since Davie died.’
‘I don’t feel strong,’ Louie confessed with a sniff. ‘I miss him that much.’
Sam stroked her fair hair clumsily. ‘Aye,’ he whispered, ‘I know you do.’ Only inwardly could Sam admit that he missed the lad too.
It was almost dark by the time Eb reached the allotment; what dismal light the day had shed was draining quickly out of the sky. Eleanor was waiting for him. Without a word they entered the hut and Eb lit a candle stub, placing it high on a shelf to cast its glow further. Eleanor decided to get straight to the point.
‘I’m leaving Reginald,’ she announced. ‘I’m leaving The Grange.’ Eb started at the news, peering in the dimness to see if she was jesting. Her slim face was quite composed. A thousand questions burst into his mind but he did not know where to begin, so instead he allowed her to continue.
‘With Beatrice gone and Reginald and my father more away from home than here, I feel I’m carrying out some silly charade - pretending to be the lady of the manor.’ She gave a self-deprecatory laugh. ‘The Grange no longer feels like home - it’s just a place of memories for me. My life there is pointless and shallow - has been for ages. I want to do something worthwhile for once! Oh, doesn’t that sound pompous?’
‘No.’ Eb found his voice. ‘What do you intend to do?’
‘I shall move to Durham where I have friends who won’t care about the scandal. I also want to set up a birth control clinic - here in the village. It’s something I’ve talked about doing for a long time but never done anything about. Well, now I’ve discussed it with Dr Joice and he is prepared to help me.’
Eb gave out a soft whistle. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘Of course I am,’ Eleanor responded sharply.
‘Does your husband know of your plans?’
Eleanor nodded. ‘We discussed it this afternoon. He wasn’t even upset,’ she said with a touch of chagrin, ‘treated it like one of his business arrangements. Reginald is simply relieved I’m not going to fight over the estate - I’ll have quite enough to live on for my needs.’ Eleanor stopped, aware that her reduced wealth would still be beyond the aspirations of a miner.
‘And he’s just letting you go without a fight - after all his spying and threats and blackmailing?’ Eb sounded amazed.
‘Yes,’ Eleanor answered with a shrug of resignation. ‘The threats were only to prevent me meddling in his business. I haven’t been of use to my husband for a long time - only my money interests him. In a couple of years we can quietly divorce after the furore of my desertion has died down. He will bask in the sympathy of the county and be free to marry Libby Fisher who will oblige him with his longed-for heir. That’s the only other thing Reginald cares about.’ Eleanor’s tone was matter of fact, but as she lit a cigarette from the wavering candle her hands shook.
‘And you, Eleanor?’ Eb asked quietly. ‘Do you plan to remarry?’
‘I’ve had an offer from an American tycoon already.’ She laughed and then at once regretted her flippancy. ‘I told him it depended on you.’
Eb shifted uneasily on to his other leg, his arms crossed defensively against his chest. ‘How can I fit into your plans?’ he growled.
‘By coming to live with me in Durham. There’s nothing to stop us being together now,’ Eleanor urged. ‘You can concentrate on your painting - have lessons with Ruth Spencer - you don’t have to worry about the financial side of things, I’ll take care of that.’
‘Be a kept man, you mean?’ Eb’s face betrayed his disapproval. ‘I can hear them laughing now - Eb Kirkup, the Seward woman’s fancy man.’
Eleanor was offended by his harsh laughter. ‘What does it matter what other people think of us? You’ve always spurned convention. Why should it concern you if we live off my private income while you paint? All the great artists have had their patrons.’
Eb glared at her. ‘Still Lady Bountiful.’ He shook his head. ‘I would always be beholden to you, don’t you see? I’m not like your husband; I’ve never wanted your money, Eleanor, and I don’t want it now.’
‘You’re impossible!’ She dropped her cigarette and stamped on the glowing end. ‘At last we have a chance to be together and you throw it back in my face. I’ve a good mind to accept the American’s offer - I can see you no longer love me the way I love you!’
‘That’s not what I said,’ Eb countered, removing his cap and running a hand agitatedly over his head. ‘I do still care for you. But this is all too sudden - I can’t think straight, what with Davie just buried!’ He took a deep breath and continued more calmly. ‘My family needs me now, Eleanor, more than you do. Davie’s death has brought us all closer. If I left to live with you they would never understand. As far as my parents would be concerned, you would still be Mrs Reginald Seward-Scott and your place should be with your husband. They would probably never speak to me again - I’d be betraying my own kind in their eyes. It’s too soon after Davie’s death for them to lose another son.’
Eleanor bit her lip. ‘How long do I have to wait for you, Eb?’
He looked at her unhappily. ‘Best not to wait,’ he answered and reached for the door. He pulled it open and the sudden blast of wind snuffed out the candle, leaving the hut in pitch blackness. Eleanor hurried past Eb, glad that he could not see the bitter tears of disappointment flooding her eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Eleanor found a house in the cobbled Bailey, a stone’s throw from the quiet Cathedral quadrangle in the heart of Durham. It had a narrow secluded garden which overhu
ng the sluggish River Wear and was close to two colleges. She enjoyed being woken by peals of bells on a Sunday morning and watching the students dawdling along the ancient street to their lectures during the week. Bridget her maid had moved with her as housekeeper, and she had engaged Molly Hutchinson as cook. The young widow had jumped at the chance of being in Durham close to her own people at the village of Pity Me. She arranged for her sister to look after the children during the day and was allowed every other weekend off to be with them.
For the first time in years, Eleanor relished her freedom to come and go as she pleased, entertain her friends in the cosy charm of her comfortable sitting room and not have to keep up stilted appearances for either Reginald or her father. Thomas Seward-Scott occasionally called if he was in the town and kept her informed of county gossip. Otherwise she had no contact with The Grange. She was no longer included in weekend house parties at the country houses of former friends, or invited out with the Swainsons; Reginald had circulated a rumour that her behaviour had grown increasingly bizarre until it had put an unacceptable strain on their marriage. ‘And she refused to give me children,’ Eleanor could hear him saying stoically. ‘That’s all I ever asked of Eleanor.’ In a wave of sympathy the ladies of the county were falling over themselves to entertain him. It made Eleanor laugh to think of the quiet, respectable life she now lived being portrayed in animated dinner conversations as ‘quite mad’.
By chance she had once overheard Rose Fisher gossiping about her in a Durham tea shop. ‘Of course there was another man involved.’ Rose spoke with a jangle of bracelets in the hushed upstairs salon. ‘Reggie would never be so disloyal as to admit it,’ she continued, red lips pursed in satisfaction at the scandalised look on her friend’s face, ‘but Libby said there was one all the same.’ Eleanor felt herself blushing puce at the realisation that she was the subject of their salacious talk. She froze on the stairs, just out of view of the women.
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