Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Louie’s heart plummeted to see a strange van parked outside the house. Barny was sitting behind the wheel and waved to them as they passed.

  Steeling herself for the ordeal ahead, Louie entered the house briskly, leaving Sam to follow behind with her father and Sadie. Fanny Kirkup, who had declared herself too ill to walk to chapel, was sitting tensely in the kitchen, waiting with Iris and Raymond. As soon as the boy saw Louie he rushed across and flung up his arms to be hugged.

  ‘Soldiers, Mammy!’ he cried, clutching his presents in either hand.

  ‘Happy Christmas, pet.’ Louie kissed him. ‘Happy Christmas, Iris,’ she greeted her sister-in-law bravely.

  Iris stood up. ‘I want a word, Louie,’ she said, almost severely, ‘alone.’

  ‘In the parlour then?’ Louie suggested, her heart pounding fearfully. Raymond began to protest as Louie put him down, but Sam and Jacob appeared through the door at that moment and he ran to his uncle.

  ‘Close the door,’ Iris ordered quickly. Louie glanced at Fanny’s anxious face beyond the door and then obeyed.

  ‘I’ve been thinking things through since yesterday,’ Iris began brusquely. ‘It’s going to be hard taking Raymond away from you.’ Louie gulped, her mouth painfully dry.

  ‘I’m sorry about the way I spoke.’ Louie was contrite. ‘I was just a bit upset.’

  ‘I know,’ Iris said tightly, ‘and Raymond was too.’

  ‘He’s too young to understand.’ Louie tried to find an excuse. ‘Soon it’ll be me he won’t remember,’ she joked painfully.

  ‘Maybe.’ Iris fiddled with the large buttons on her orange and black dress. She looked up at Louie and her voice became businesslike. ‘There’s no problem keeping him while I travel - there are girls in the cast who can help out. And I can give him just as much love as you,’ she said defiantly. She stared at Louie with glittering hazel eyes. ‘But I saw how much you and Sam have come to mean to Raymond. I was kidding myself he would accept me straight back as his mam. It hurts me that he doesn’t.’

  The two women looked at each other helplessly. Iris’s voice dropped. ‘But you can give Raymond the home that he wants as well as your love. Who would have thought he’d be such a happy bairn after all he’s been through - with his dad dying and that? It’s thanks to you and Sam, Louie, that he is.’

  Iris turned and looked out of the window. ‘If you’d agree to carry on looking after him,’ her voice wavered, ‘I’d like you to bring him up.’

  Louie thought she had misheard. Yet Iris was watching her now for her opinion. Feeling her heart swelling with joy at the request, she rushed at Iris and flung her arms about her.

  ‘Of course I’ll agree,’ she cried. ‘I love that lad like my own.’

  ‘Yes,’ Iris closed her eyes against tears as she hugged the other woman, ‘I know you do.’

  They heard Raymond’s insistent voice beyond the door and the men’s attempts to pacify him. He started to rattle the stiff doorknob. Iris drew away.

  ‘Promise me you’ll talk about me to Raymond once in a while,’ she asked, ‘and about his father?’

  ‘I promise,’ Louie smiled tearfully. ‘He’ll grow up knowing who his real mam and dad are, and how much you love him.’

  ‘I’ll write - and visit when I’m in the area, of course.’ Iris sniffed and struggled to compose her face.

  ‘Of course.’ Louie squeezed her hand. ‘Come when you can.’

  Iris glanced at her reflection in the parlour mirror and wiped a smudge of eyeliner with her handkerchief. ‘Barny’s waiting to get back to Durham.’ She spoke more briskly. ‘I’ll get the bairn’s bag from the van and then go.’

  ‘Stay for a mince pie - you and Barny,’ Louie insisted.

  ‘No ta, Louie.’ Iris’s strained face was unguarded for a second. ‘I’ll just say a quick goodbye to Raymond.’

  They emerged from the parlour to five pairs of enquiring eyes. Louie explained Iris’s decision quickly and the joyful relief in the warm kitchen was palpable. Iris bent down and kissed Fanny on the cheek. Louie could see her mother’s eyes shining with tears and knew how much it would lift her spirits to have the boy around each day.

  ‘Look after yourself, pet,’ the frail older woman urged, ‘and we’ll take good care of your bairn.’

  Iris smiled distractedly as she buttoned up her coat. In one swift movement she whisked Raymond off his feet in a sudden embrace before the boy could protest.

  ‘I’ll be back soon, bonny lad, with a sackful of presents for my favourite boy,’ she promised, kissing him roundly on his small mouth.

  To Louie’s relief he did not object. Iris handed her son over to Sam and they followed her out of the door.

  In the quiet street, Iris swung round and faced Louie. They regarded each other silently for a moment, each recalling a hundred small memories they shared, would always share, no matter how far apart.

  ‘Merry Christmas Louie.’ Iris smiled wistfully. Louie nodded, unable to speak or adequately express her gratitude. She could only guess at the empty loneliness the other woman must be feeling at that instant. She knew how others would accuse Iris of selfishness in leaving her son behind, but Louie would defend her. Only the most generous love could enable the Durham girl to turn now and leave without her small boy. Louie took Raymond’s bag from Iris and clutched it to her.

  The van sparked into life and chugged down the icy street, Sam and Louie waving it away. Louie smiled happily at her husband still holding their nephew. She breathed in the cold air in joyful gulps.

  ‘What a wonderful Christmas present you’ve given us,’ she whispered to the pale-blue sky and went to put her arms around the grinning pair who stood before her.

  The Durham Mining Trilogy

  THE HUNGRY HILLS is the first in the Durham Mining Trilogy. The second is THE DARKENING SKIES. With the vivid backdrop of Whitton Grange strained by the tensions of the Second World War and the fate of their Italian community, THE DARKENING SKIES is a vibrant and moving story of conflicting loyalties, passions and cultures.

  Read a bonus chapter from THE DARKENING SKIES.

  Praise for THE DARKENING SKIES:

  ‘A moving and well written tale, The Darkening Skies continues the story of the people who live in the fictitious mining community of Whitton Grange. Janet convincingly portrays the rising tide of hate that engulfs the village…There is a good deal of worry, misery and poverty. But there is also courage, warmth, and, above all hope.’

  The Newcastle Journal

  ‘This rich slice of pit-town life shows a world which is all but forgotten.’

  Northern Echo

  ‘I have just finished reading the fantastic novel ‘The Darkening Skies’ and I must say that I found your novel impossible to put down. You have written a story about prejudice, hatred and passion and you’ve managed to make me chuckle as well as shed a tear. You clearly are one of the genre’s best writers. I hope that you keep producing more great books.’

  J.D.B. - Malta.

  Praise for NEVER STAND ALONE

  (the last in The Durham Trilogy):

  ‘A gritty, heartrending and impassioned drama’

  The Newcastle Journal

  ‘A tough, compelling and ultimately satisfying novel … another classy, irresistible read’

  Sunderland Echo

  ‘She pulls no punches, tells it like it is and taps directly into your emotions. Excellent’

  Northern Echo

  ‘The gritty, unforgettable story of families torn apart by the conflict that divided a nation…a powerful story’

  World Books

  Janet welcomes comments and feedback on her stories. If you would like to do so, you can contact her through her website:

  www.janetmacleodtrotter.com

  THE DARKENING SKIES

  Chapter One

  ‘April 21st 1939. Today Sid Gibson asked me to marry him.’

  Sara Pallister stared at the words she had just written in the old exercise bo
ok she used as a diary, chewing on the end of her pencil, recalling her surprise. They had been sitting on the wall below the old lead mine, dipping their feet into the burn. It was cold as ice. Heather was burning over on Thimble Hill and they had been watching the fires spreading in the wind. At least Sara had been. All of a sudden Sid had said, ‘Do you want to get wed?’ Sara had laughed, ‘To who, like?’ As Sid flushed scarlet she had realised the farmer’s son was serious. He wants to marry me! she thought with incredulity, re-reading the stark words laid out in her bold script.

  She had had this daydream for years about being proposed to up on the fell, among the heather. Her dream lad was tall and dark and full of passion, like Heathcliffe in Wuthering Heights which Sara had read so often her mother complained the pages were falling out.

  But Sid, Sara thought with dissatisfaction, had a round face and straw-coloured hair. She knew her father and Sid’s father would be pleased at the Pallisters and the Gibsons coming together after generations of being neighbours. And Bill’s Mary would say good riddance and have her out of the house as quick as a flash, Sara thought, glancing across the large kitchen-cum-parlour at her sister-in-law. Mary was too mean to stoke up her own fire, preferring to come round here and help herself to her mother-in-law’s cooking and have a gossip.

  ‘John Lawson’s got the sack from the slaughterhouse,’ Mary was saying. Turning up drunk he was - and he with a bairn to support. Beth was a fool marrying a waster like John Lawson.’

  Always poking her nose in is Mary Emerson, Sara thought, resentful of the criticism of her friend Beth. Her mother was too soft to tell Mary to mind her own business and just now Sara was too preoccupied with Sid’s proposal. At least Mary did not know about her and Sid, Sara thought, hugging her secret.

  She thought back to that moment on the wall again.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Sara had said and Sid had leaned over and kissed her. His mouth had been dry and tasted sweetly of hay and Sara’s long, wispy hair had blown in the way.

  Sara wondered what it would be like being married to Sid. They would have to live with his family so he could help his father with the farm and it would be a life of fetching and carrying and she would never get to see the world like her brother Tom in the army.

  Imagine never leaving Rillhope, Sara thought in dismay, or at least never getting beyond market day at Lilychapel most of the year. She might never see Bishop Auckland or Durham again! Sara realised with a painful yearning that she longed to see more of the world. She wanted to see the dance bands she heard on her mother’s gramophone and go to the pictures to see Clark Gable. She wanted one of those hats that came down over one eye and looked like they would slide off your head. But Sid Gibson did not understand this.

  ‘You’ll change once you’re married,’ Sid had told her like a doctor reassuring a sick patient, ‘lasses do.’

  That evening, Sara would have told her brother Tom whose leave was almost at an end, about the proposal but a row blew up at the supper table. It was over the Germans marching into Czechoslovakia, though Sara was vague as to where it was or why it should cause so much bickering between Tom and her father.

  ‘He’s done it now, Hitler has,’ Tom declared. ‘He’ll not be happy till he’s scrapping with us an’ all.’

  ‘Don’t talk daft,’ Mr Pallister fretted, pushing away his food with disinterest.

  ‘Well, we can’t ignore Jerry for ever,’ Tom continued, despite the signs of his father’s darkening mood. ‘They’ve got away with too much for too long. There’ll be a scrap.’

  ‘Chamberlain won’t allow it!’ his father snapped.

  ‘Chamberlain!’ Tom scoffed. ‘He’s got his head up his backside.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ his father cried and pushing back his chair stormed out to the byre, leaving the family subdued.

  The next day was Sunday and Sara peered out of the kitchen window at the rain spattering the daffodils, thinking glumly that Tom’s leave finished tomorrow. She would miss him and the way he defended her when Mary got on her high horse about how she did not help around the house enough! Tom looked so grand in his Durham Light Infantry uniform, a real soldier, Sara thought proudly, watching him polish his boots. Even so, she wished he would not upset their father with his talk about another war with the Germans.

  Last night her father had spent most of the evening sulking in the byre with the sickly lambs. These days he was always moody and their mother constantly warned them not to get in his way. He had not whistled round the house for weeks with all this talk of war, Sara thought, and then there were those letters from the bank she had overheard Mary and Bill discussing about the farm owing money. But why worry? Sara reasoned. Banks had plenty of money, so why should they mind if their small farm borrowed a bit?

  ‘Put that blessed diary away before your father sees it,’ Lily Pallister fussed at her daughter. ‘And find Chrissie - make sure she’s washed her face. Hurry up now!’

  Sara slipped her notebook under the hooky mat by the solid oak sideboard and rushed into the scullery. Pulling on a pair of mud-splashed Wellington boots and covering her head with her gabardine coat, she ventured outside into the pouring rain. She slithered along the flagstones in front of the farmhouse and dived into the adjoining barn, knowing her younger sister would be with the lambs.

  ‘Chrissie! Haway we’ll be late for chapel,’ Sara panted, peering into the nearest stall.

  ‘Smoky won’t take his milk this morning,’ Chrissie looked up from her crouched position in the straw, her straight brown hair falling across her eyes. Sara had known her thirteen-year-old sister stay in the barn all night keeping vigil over the tiny bleating lambs, coaxing them to drink from a bottle.

  ‘You’ll have to leave him now,’ the older girl said more gently, ‘but I’ll come and help you feed him after chapel. Mam’s going light we’re not ready.’

  ‘Dad says I can keep Smoky as a pet if he pulls through.’ Chrissie’s pale face broke into a smile.

  ‘That’s grand.’ Sara took her hand and pulled her up, thinking how soft her father was under his gruff exterior. He had paid for Bill and Mary’s wedding last year because Mary’s parents had been means tested and were getting public assistance. Furthermore, Richard Pallister did not insist that his sixteen-year-old daughter went out to work. No wonder he’s in debt to the bank, Sara thought with a twinge of guilt.

  The girls hurried back to the house and Sara made Chrissie wipe her face with a damp flannel while she combed the straw out of her tangled hair, before binding it into pigtails. Her own long, honey-coloured hair she bound in a pink ribbon then fixed on her green beret at a jaunty angle, glancing at her mother to see if she noticed. But she was bending over the range, her all-enveloping apron protecting her frayed best dress from the cinders.

  Down the stairs clattered her father and Tom, the one in starched white collar and old-fashioned black three-piece suit, the other in the khaki of his DLI uniform and polished black boots. Tom’s face was ruddy with scrubbing, but her father’s chin was nicked from shaving. It was not like him to allow his razor to become blunt. He reached for his sombre black hat, ignoring her look of concern.

  ‘Fetch the Bible, Sara,’ he commanded as they gathered in the doorway. Tom, help your brother hitch up the trap.’

  Tom winked at Sara as he passed and pulled her beret over her eyes.

  ‘Gerr off!’ his sister complained and rushed to the mirror.

  ‘Do as your father says, Sara,’ her mother said with a twitch of a smile as she pinned her blue hat to thick brown hair, ‘and straighten up that beret. You’re not going on a fashion parade.’

  Chrissie giggled as their father led them out into a fresh deluge of rain and ran for the trap which Bill had waiting outside. Mary was already perched on a bench under the slim protection of a canvas covering, her round face prim under her purple crocheted hat. The other women and Tom squeezed in beside her while Richard Pallister took the reins beside Bill. The stocky Dales pon
y, Bluebell, set off at a quick trot down the track, shaking the passengers against each other in the old carriage. Cath, the Pallisters’ sheepdog, ran barking a farewell behind them until they reached the first gate, then she turned and trotted back to her kennel in the yard.

  ‘Likely Sid Gibson’ll be there already,’ Tom teased Sara.

  ‘So?’ she answered unconcernedly, her fair face colouring.

  ‘He’s become quite religious since I was last home.’ Tom winked.

  ‘That’s enough, Tom,’ Lily Pallister said, but her smile was indulgent. ‘The Gibsons have always been good chapel-goers.’

  Mary joined in. ‘I saw you coming back from Rillhope mine yesterday with Sid Gibson. You seem to be seeing a lot of him lately.’

  ‘Am I?’ Sara replied, giving her sister-in-law a dismissive look. ‘I thought you were too busy with all your housework to notice what other folks do.’

  Chrissie sniggered into her hand, but Mary was quick to retaliate.

  ‘So you are courting, then? It would explain why you never have time to feed the hens, wouldn’t it, Mrs Pallister?’ She gave a knowing look to her mother-in-law, but the older woman did not respond. Mary persisted, ‘If you’re serious about Sid Gibson you’ll have to bring him round for tea, won’t she, Mrs Pallister? Better than sneaking around the beck in all weathers - it’s not seemly.’

  ‘That’s up to Sara, our Mary,’ Lily Pallister replied evenly, unruffled by their bickering. ‘Sid’s always welcome at Stout House.’ She squinted at her plump-cheeked daughter through the rain. Sara flushed under the scrutiny.

  ‘I just went for a walk up the beck, and happened to bump into him,’ she said defensively. ‘Can’t a lass go for a walk without being watched?’

  ‘Aye,’ Tom agreed, ‘Sara’s always been one for walkin’, nowt wrong with that.’ He scanned Mary’s thickening figure with his blue eyes. ‘Looks like you could do with a bit exercise, yourself. Too much of Mam’s home baking, eh, Mary?’