Rough Clay

by Chrissie Loveday

  Archie ran all the way home. He was late leaving school after his talk with the teacher. His Mum would be fretting. He’d have to get the coal up from the cellar for her. He ran down the back entry, his mother’s ill-fitting shoes clattering over the cobbles. He pushed open the gate and stopped in his tracks. There was something up. The lights were shining out of the back scullery and he could hear water running down the sink. He opened the back door and peered inside.

  ‘You’ll have to wait outside, love,’ said the strange woman who seemed to have taken over the house. ‘Won’t be long. I know it’s cold outside, but your Mum’s having her babba. New little brother or sister for you. You’ll know real soon.’

  ‘Didn’t think it was coming awhile yet,’ Archie said miserably. Everything was going to change now. ‘Is me Dad home yet?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet, love. Best wait there and I’ll give you a call when it’s all over.’ She bustled off and Archie sat in his favourite place on the back door step. He barely noticed the cold. S’pose his Mum died? Women often did when they had babies. His Mum had been feeling poorly for a few days now. He hugged his bare knees and sat waiting, waiting. He heard a scream from upstairs. His blood froze.

  ‘Don’t go and die us, our Mum,’ he begged. The screams continued and he felt tears filling his eyes. Why did it have to hurt so much? There must be some better way of bringing babies into the world. A new sound filled the dusk. It was another scream but this time, a thin, little sound. Then everything went silent. The boy got up and pushed his way into the scullery. It was deathly quiet upstairs. He padded through the kitchen, leaving the oversized shoes by the door. He opened the door to the stairs and slowly climbed up. He could hear low voices muttering and the sounds of movement. He was terrified. He wanted to go into the room but he was too scared of what he might find. At last he pushed open the door of his parents’ bedroom and peered round. The bed-sheets were on the floor, covered in blood. There was a newspaper package, also blood-soaked, near the door. He gripped the side of the door, feeling light-headed and weak. The midwife was bending over the bed, dipping some rags into a washing up bowl of steaming water. His mother lay back against the pillows, white faced and covered in sweat. The midwife wrung out her cloth and wiped his mother’s private parts. With shock, he realised he could see all of her private parts. He gasped and stuffed a fist into his mouth to stop himself from crying out. The midwife turned as she heard the sound and began scolding him.

  ‘I told you I’d call when we were ready for you.’

  ‘Is she dead?’ he managed to stammer. ‘Only I heard the screaming and . . . thought . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘I’m all right, love,’ his mother said weakly. ‘You’ve got a little brother.’

  ‘Are you all right though, Mum? You aren’t going to die are you?’

  ‘Course she isn’t. Now, do something useful and get a brew going. Your mother’s worn out and so am I. Go on with you. And put a good spoonful of sugar in it. We both need a bit of energy back in us.’

  Given something positive to do, the boy went down the stairs with a sense of importance. He’d have some tale to tell the others at school tomorrow. New brother eh? At least that was one better than a sister or even a new kitten. You could play with a brother and not have to fuss round like you did with a girl. He could scarcely imagine what life would be like with a brother. He’d been the only child for so long. He stopped on the bottom step and sat for a moment. He bit his lip as new thoughts struck him. He was always hungry, it seemed. What would it be like with another person sharing the little they had? Mind you, the way things looked upstairs, he doubted his mother could possibly survive, not after the horror of all the blood he’d seen. He tried to pull himself together and went into the scullery. Whatever happened in the future, he, Archie, was important at this moment. He had something to do. He pushed the pump handle energetically and filled the kettle. He put it on the fire hob and turned to the cellar. They’d need some coal fetching up. He’d need to get some supper going as well. Having babies was probably hungry work and his Mum would need some good food inside her. He fetched the coal and stoked the fire. The memory of all the blood came to him and he gave a shudder. Then he went to look in the larder. The shelves were empty. Damn. His mother said she’d go shopping today and she must have forgotten. He stood wondering what to do. His dad would soon be home. He’d expect a meal on the table, new baby or no. There was only one thing for it. Archie would have to go and talk to Mrs Machin at the corner shop. Maybe, under the circumstances, she would give him some credit. His Mum never believed in putting anything on the slate but she was in no position to complain at the moment. He shivered again as he thought all about the blood everywhere upstairs. If giving birth was such a messy business, he wondered how anyone could do it at all and especially not twice. Some families even had a load of kids. He must make sure that his own wife, if he ever had one, never had to go through it all. Still, by the time he was old enough to have a wife, they’d surely have found some better way of getting babies.

  ‘You see, me Mum’s just had my baby brother and she musta forgot to go shopping this morning. And me Dad’ll be home from his shift soon and there’s nothing in the house. So, I was wondering if I could have something for tea. And put it on the slate. Mum’ll settle up with you in the morning, I’m certain.’

  ‘Well, I’m not so sure. Your Mum doesn’t like having things on tick. But I expect it’ll be all right under the circumstances. What did you want?’

  ‘I dunno. Something to feed us all. And the baby. What do babies eat? Will I need to get something for his tea as well?’

  ‘No, love,’ laughed Mrs Machin. ‘Your Mum’ll have all he needs for a few weeks. Now, what can you cook?’

  ‘I can do jacket spuds. Put them in the oven and have ’em with a bit of butter.’

  ‘Right then. Spuds it is. And I’ll give you a bit of cheese to melt on top. That’ll do your Mum good.’ The woman packed a few items into a piece of paper and made a rough parcel. She tied a piece of string round it and handed it over.

  ‘How much is that?’ asked Archie, so he could tell his mum what she owed.

  ‘I’ll sort it out with your Mum when I see her,’ she said. Then she took a deep breath. ‘Tell her it’s a present to welcome the new baby.’ She couldn’t bear to think of any of them going hungry at a time like this.

  ‘That’s everso good of you. Ta, Mrs Machin. I’ll tell her.’

  He ran back. The midwife was burning the bloody package he’d seen in the bedroom. He watched, fascinated. The kitchen was filled with steam. He’d forgotten about the kettle. He washed the potatoes quickly and put them into the little oven at the side of the fireplace. They’d take a long time to cook. Mum sometimes left them in all afternoon so he hoped they’d be in time for when his Dad got home. Funny to think, his Dad had another son and he didn’t even know it yet.

  Archie poured the boiling water over the old tea leaves, adding a few extra, as usual. Once it had time to brew, he poured a mug to take up to his Mum. He was worried at the thought of what he might find. Everything was very quiet up there. He opened the door leading out of the kitchen to the upstairs and climbed the steep steps. However carefully he was carrying the mug, he still managed to spill some on the bare wood. He knocked at his parents’ door and went in when he was called. His mother was sitting upright now and the colour had returned to her face.

  ‘Hallo, love. You come to see your little brother?’

  ‘I’ve brought you some tea, Mum. Are you all right? You gave me a right scare before.’

  ‘You didn’t choose the best moment, son. But I’m fine now. A bit sore but I’ll be getting up later. I’ll see to your Dad’s tea.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mum. I’ve put some potatoes in the oven and there’s a dab of butter and a bit of cheese to go with them.’

  ‘Where’s all that come from? I never went shopping this morning. I was too poorly.’

  �
��I went to Machin’s. She let me put it on the slate. But then she said it didn’t matter and that we could have it as a present to welcome the new baby.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. But it’s OK, love. You did well. Now, are you going to look at this new baby of ours?’

  Archie went over to the big drawer, lined with a blanket, that served as a cot. He peered in and stared at the wrapped bundle.

  ‘Ugly little sod, isn’t he?’ he said without thinking. ‘All sort of squashed in and wrinkled.’

  ‘He’s lovely,’ his Mum said defensively. ‘All new babies look wrinkled. You were no great beauty yourself.’

  ‘Boys aren’t s’posed to be. But he’s a right ugly one. Uglier than most, I’d say.’

  ‘Oh, and you’re an expert are you?’

  He was spared from replying as they heard the back gate rattle.

  ‘Dad’s home,’ he said and rushed down the stairs.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Archie’s new brother was called Ralph William. Rapidly Ralph was dropped in favour of his second name, to avoid the confusion of father and son sharing the same name. For Archie the daily chores remained the same. The routine grind of school, hauling the coal from the cellar and helping with the evening meal continued. His extra work in preparation for the scholarship exam was fitted in at odd times. He worked during the school lunch break, helped by his teacher. The night before the test, his teacher told him to try to get an early night so he awoke refreshed and ready for his big chance. He still hadn’t told his parents about the exam, partly because they were too busy with the new baby and partly because he knew there was no chance of him ever taking up the scholarship, should he be lucky enough to win it.

  At nine o’clock, he muttered his goodnights and went up to bed. His parents barely noticed his absence and he lay awake, dreaming of the opportunities education could provide. It was the first stage in his plans for the future. He wanted to learn to design something but his limited experience left the actual subject somewhat undefined. He heard his parents come up to their room, bringing the baby with them. It was midnight before his excited mind allowed him to doze off and by the time morning came, he was feeling the exact opposite of bright and alert.

  Downstairs, his father was lighting the fire. Usually, a good shovel of slack last thing would keep the heat in. For some reason, the whole thing had gone out and had to be started from scratch. It wouldn’t have mattered but today, Archie wanted to get to school in plenty of time for a last minute chat with his teacher. There were four boys sitting the exam and he understood that competition was intense.

  ‘I’ve got to be at school early today, Dad,’ he said. ‘So I’ll have to miss the tea. Kettle’ll take too long on that fire.’

  ‘What’s your hurry, lad? I’m afraid your Mum isn’t feeling well. She wants you to stay home and help her with the baby.’

  Archie’s heart sank. Today of all days. This was his only chance and there could never be another.

  ‘But, Dad, I can’t. There’s something special going off at school today and I can’t miss it. Please, Dad.’

  ‘Someone has to look after her. I can’t take a day off. I could lose my job and then where would we be? No, son. There’s no choice.’

  Archie felt tears of frustration and loss filling his eyes.

  ‘But Dad,’ he began. Then he stopped. There was no point even trying to explain what it meant to him.

  ‘Archie? What is it, lad?’

  ‘Nothing, Dad. I’ll get the kettle filled.’ Scrubbing away the tears that were threatening, he went into the scullery and began to work the stiff pump. His father watched him. He was a good lad. Bright. Most sons followed their fathers down the mines. Another few months and Archie would have his place booked beside his father. The boy returned and put the kettle on the hob. It would take a long time to boil as the heat was slow today. The boy’s already pale face was drained. He looked as if he was in pain.

  ‘What’s so special about school today then, lad?’ Ralph Barnett asked kindly.

  ‘Just a test. A special sort of exam.’

  ‘And you were s’posed to be taking it? Whatever for? I never had any tests in my life and I’ve never missed them.’

  ‘No, Dad. It’s for boys who want to go on to the grammar.’

  ‘Fat chance of that, lad,’ his father said gloomily. ‘You’ll have to be working soon. Earning a wage. Once your little brother starts to grow, we’ll need more money coming in. Have you given thought to the pit? I can have a word with Mr Copestake. Dare say he’ll even keep you a place for a few months, till you’re a bit older.’

  ‘No, Dad,’ Archie said calmly. ‘I’m never going down the pit. Never. I’ll maybe try for something in one of the pot banks.’ His father stared at him.

  ‘Pot banks? What do you know about making china?’

  ‘I could learn. My teacher says I’m a bright lad. He was the one put me in for the exam. He thinks I’ll pass, easy.’

  His father’s face softened.

  ‘Go on then. Get off to your precious exam.’ Archie stared in surprise at the unaccustomed turnaround. Usually, once his Dad had spoken that was it. No amount of cajoling would make him change his mind.

  ‘But what about Mum? Who’ll see to things for her?’

  ‘I’ll see if Maggie next door will pop in a couple of times during the day. Mind you get home as soon as you can. Oh, and good luck, son. Not that it’ll do you much good. You’ll never be able to go to any grammar school, you do know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ the child said as he ran out of the door. He didn’t see the troubled look on his father’s face as he watched him go. Grammar schools. Pottery worker. He wasn’t his father’s son at all. The mines had always been good enough for him as they were for his father before him. He looked down at his scruffy, filthy clothes. He looked at his hands, rough and marked with the black scarred evidence of his life’s employment.

  ‘Maybe you should have some ambitions, son. Make a new life and get out of this hell hole.’ There was no-one to hear his words but he made a solemn promise to help his lad as best he could. Somehow, they had to find a way to put the boy through school. If that’s what his teacher thought was possible, somehow, he had to make it so. If Archie had known of his father’s change of heart, he might have felt better about his escape from a day’s housework. As it was, he felt consumed with guilt. Maybe he could get away early, as soon as the test was finished. His teacher would have to understand.

  At nine o’clock sharp, four boys sat at individual desks, placed at one side of the classroom and right away from the rest of the boys. Proper ink and pens had been supplied, instead of the usual slates and slate pencils. The ink was in a little pot fitted into a wooden hole in the desk. It was the first time any of them had used these desks and the scratchy pens seemed to need dipping into the ink every couple of words. Archie felt cross. It would have been so much quicker if they could have used pencils. He was more used to them and he would have finished much earlier. Once he got into it, he began to enjoy the tests. He even began to like the smell of the ink, a special smell that he would always remember. The maths was easy and he’d always loved writing stories. He was usually the hero, a successful, wealthy man. He had proper china plates on his table, ones with painted flowers on them. He scratched away with his pen and soon the pages were covered in blots of ink and spidery words, containing Archie’s childish, hopeful ambitions of a better life to come.

  He was all ready to go back home at dinner time and went to say goodbye to his teacher, explaining that his dad had only let him come to school for the morning.

  ‘Hang on, lad,’ the teacher said. ‘You can’t go yet. You haven’t finished. You have to have a talk with the headmaster of the grammar this afternoon. He’s coming over to see all the candidates. If he thinks you’ll benefit from the grammar school, you’ll get your chance, providing your tests are good enough.’

  ‘But me Dad’ll belt me if I’m n
ot home. Me Mum’s ill and with the new baby and all . . .’

  ‘I’ll put you in first,’ the teacher promised. His heart was heavy. If the lad succeeded the way he knew he would, the future would be fraught with difficulties. It was the custom in this area that whenever there was a crisis at home, the children were kept off school. There was nothing they could do about it. And once the parents needed their children to go to work, that was the end of schooling for any of them. The system had to change, he told himself.

  Archie kicked a few stones around with the other boys, in the school yard. His stomach rumbled. He felt weak with hunger as he remembered he’d missed breakfast. He’d had nothing for lunch either. Such was life. When the time came for the interview, all Archie could think about was his scruffy jacket, cut down from one of his dad’s, and his mother’s shoes. He tried to scrub his face a bit cleaner but with nothing to use, he merely drove the grime a little deeper. The head of the grammar was most intimidating. He spoke with a very posh accent, the boy thought. He wasn’t from this part of the world. He tried to think more about how he spoke himself and managed to give quite a good impersonation of his interviewer, or so he believed.

  ‘And what do you hope to become, Archie?’ the head said seriously.

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ he replied. ‘But I’ll not go down the pit. However much my Dad thinks I should. I want to do something with beautiful things. Like I wrote in my story this morning.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe work in the pottery. I’d like that. Designing things.’

  ‘And do you have any connections with the pottery industry?’

  ‘No, sir. I’ve seen things though. In the shops. Beautiful things. Real china plates like royalty must eat from. And beautiful flowers, made out of fine china, and ladies in frilly skirts. They’re so lovely you could cry just looking at them.’ His eyes shone with enthusiasm. ‘There’s loads of colours and even some with real gold on ’em. I want to make something like that. Oh, and I’m going to be famous. I’ve practised my signature for when I am.’