Rough Clay

by Chrissie Loveday

  The austere man relaxed. He smiled briefly. All too often his potential pupils had grand ideas of the future. Few of them had the confidence and certainty to dare speak of them. This child had something quite different from the usual stream of boys passing through his school. He was undoubtedly a dreamer but his deep certainty about the future was refreshing. He deserved to be spared from the mines with their black and ugly darkness, however necessary they were to the locality. He saw the ill-fitting shoes and the cut-down, threadbare jacket. This boy would find nothing easy in his attempt to better himself, but in spite of his thoughts, he began to speak.

  ‘I’d like to see you starting at the grammar school next year. I can’t promise you a place at this early stage, of course. There are still a number of boys to interview. But I think you might be optimistic.’

  ‘Right, sir. Thank you, sir.’ He got up uncertainly. Was that it? Could he get back home now? The man nodded his dismissal.

  ‘Send in the next candidate, please. Goodbye, Archie. I look forward to seeing you again soon.’

  ‘How did it go?’ asked his teacher anxiously.

  ‘He said I could be optim . . . something. And he looked forward to seeing me soon.’

  ‘Optimistic?

  ‘Aye, that was it.’

  ‘That’s really good, Archie. I think it means you have a very good chance of success. Well done. Now, you can go home, if you want to.’

  It was almost Christmas. There was little to suggest that this would be a good Christmas for many of the families of Longport. The war that had become known as The Great War was still rumbling on. Soon it would be 1918. Archie and his family still had food of sorts on the table and coal for the fire so were luckier than many. There had never been anything to spare for presents but each year, they looked forward to a day off work, often in the middle of the week, and a day when the family could be together.

  ‘I think we should all go to church on Christmas morning, this year,’ Mum had said. The family never went to church.

  ‘What do you have to do there?’ Archie asked curiously.

  ‘Sing some hymns. Well, carols they’re called at Christmas, and say some prayers and listen to what the vicar says.’ Archie immediately lost interest. It didn’t sound very special at all. He quite liked singing though, so didn’t raise any great objections. He hoped he’d know some of these carols his mum was talking about. They sometimes sang at school and he wondered if these carols might be some of the songs they sang.

  ‘It’s going to be a good Christmas this year, after all,’ Frances told him. ‘Your Dad’s had some extra shifts and we’ve managed to put a bit by.’

  ‘Eh, that’s good,’ Archie said. ‘Does it mean we’ll have a proper Christmas dinner? Like we used to?’

  ‘That’s right, lad. And maybe, there’ll be a little something in your stocking this year. Not much mind, but just you wait and see.’

  Archie grinned happily. He’d like to have some paper and a new pencil most of all. Maybe if he dropped a few hints, his Mum would get some. The corner shop sold exercise books. Maybe he should drop a hint there, too. If his Mum went in the shop looking for something, Mrs Machin might suggest it. And a proper Christmas dinner. Good old Dad. Even the baby was behaving itself. It was still red and ugly but he was beginning to smile when Archie talked to him. Sometimes, his Mum left him nursing his brother while she did the cooking. Now she was recovering from the birth, she seemed to be in a better temper some days. Archie could put up with anything if it meant there was food cooking when he came home. Life was looking good when the bombshell hit him.

  ‘There’s jobs going at the pit,’ his dad said one night near Christmas. ‘They’re looking for some likely young ’uns to help out. We’ve lost so many lads around here for the war effort, they’re taking them on younger than usual. Pay won’t be much but it’ll be a start. I’ve put your name forward. You’ll be old enough soon.’

  Archie’s heart sank. He didn’t mention the fact that they’d all forgotten about his birthday, last month. During these days of war, even the very youngest children were allowed to work above ground.

  ‘But, Dad. What about me schooling?’ he said at last.

  ‘I never needed none of that rubbish. Fills you full of ideas. ’Sides, this isn’t an underground job. Mostly running with messages, up at the head. You can read well enough and you’ve got a good memory.’

  ‘But I don’t want to work at the pit. I told you. Besides, there’s good chance I’ll get a place at the grammar. The teacher told me.’

  ‘Where d’ya get these ideas from? Beats me,’ Ralph Barnett burst out.

  ‘I’m good at sums and all that stuff. And I can write a decent story.’

  ‘Aye well. Maybe. But that sort of stuff doesn’t put food on the table nor pay the rent.’

  ‘Maybe I’d get a better job in the end. Pay might be better than the pits.’

  ‘I suppose you think you’re above such things. Well, mark my words, lad. As long as the pits are open, there’ll always be work round here. We don’t do so badly, do we? Things have really bucked up in the last few weeks. There’s good food and warmth from the fire. You can forget your high and mighty ideas, my lad. Come Easter, you’ll be well established as a runner.’

  Archie went outside to his perch on the step. He rubbed his eyes on the back of the worn sleeve of his coat.

  ‘I’ll not do it. I won’t do it,’ he muttered over and over. Somehow, he had to find a way to stay on at school. If mining was so good, his Dad could continue to keep his family and Archie would get his chance at high school. Maybe he could get some sort of job on Saturdays and Sundays. Somehow, he had to make it possible.

  It snowed hard the day before Christmas Eve. The streets lost their grimy grey-black pallor and looked mysteriously even and light. Houses had white roofs and window sills were piled high with soft sparkling snow. Once a few coal carts had gone down the roads, the snow was dirtied and began to look grey and uneven. Several of the occupants of the houses had shovelled away narrow paths to their houses, heaping up grubby mounds in the gutters. Archie went to knock at some of the doors down the street to ask if they wanted their snow shovelled away. A few said yes, rewarding him with a sweet or an apple. No-one paid him anything. Money was much too scarce in this street. By Christmas Day, most of the snow had gone. Grey-brown slush lined the gutters and water dripped from most roofs. But the damp dullness could not quash the spirit in the Barnett household. Archie had got his stocking, hanging over the hearth. There was no pretence of Father Christmas in the household. There never had been. Besides, a ten year old was far too old to believe in such childish nonsense.

  After breakfast, the boy solemnly put his hand inside the old sock. He pulled out a long thin parcel wrapped in a piece of brown paper. Two pencils. He gave a delighted grin.

  ‘Thanks, Mum. Dad. Great.’

  ‘Go on. There’s more.’ He looked up shyly and delved into the sock again. This time he found a thin, flat package. Inside was a small red exercise book. He flicked it open and was just a little disappointed to see it was lined. Not so good for drawing but it was paper and it was his own. He knew there was another object in the sock and slowly, at his mother’s urging, put his hand down again. She nodded and smiled at him. He felt something round and squashy. It was wet and sticky. When he pulled it out, the tangerine had a large hole in it where his finger had stuck into the soft peel.

  ‘It’s an orange,’ he said with a smile. ‘ ’Cept I’ve stuck me finger in it and made a mess.’

  ‘Best eat it then,’ Dad laughed.

  ‘I’d like to save it,’ he began. ‘Maybe not. It might go horrible.’ It took only seconds for the fruit to disappear. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have shared it with William.’

  His parents both laughed. His dad spoke.

  ‘Don’t worry, son. The baby’s much too small to eat anything like that. Now, next year, maybe he’ll give you more than a bit of competition.
Now, if we’re going to this church of yours, we’d better be off. Are you ready, love?’

  ‘Aye. I’ve put the chicken in the oven and it’s cooking nicely. I’ll just get my hat and we’ll be off.’

  The usually austere chapel was lit by candles and the bleak walls had taken on a glow of light which seemed to permeate everyone’s mood. The dreadful war must end in the coming year. They’d said it would never last, soon after it began, but they were all still suffering the deprivations. People who never spoke to each other normally smiled on this festive occasion and nodded their greetings. It was the family’s first visit to church since Ralph William had been born. Several of the women came and peered at the bundle and cooed over the child. Archie was bored and shuffled on the cold stones in his worn out shoes. His father stood stiffly uncomfortable in the unaccustomed high collar. He was ill at ease in this place but felt he owed it to his family to share the occasion. Archie thought the whole service thoroughly boring and only looked up when the minister berated the sinners for their lack of support for God’s house. He banged against the wooden pedestal he was standing on. Archie wondered why he was yelling at all the people in the church. They’d come, hadn’t they? He was yelling at the people who weren’t there. Mind you, he thought, he was yelling loud enough for most of Longport to hear him. Somehow, he got the impression that the minister seemed unaware of the hardships faced daily by his flock. The flock looked down and studied their feet as his words stirred feelings of guilt. At last, the congregation stood to sing the final carol. As the harmonium played the introductory bars, Archie gave a small grin. It was one of the carols they sang at school and he joined in with great gusto. His mother eyed him curiously and even dad looked impressed as his voice rang out. One or two others turned round to see where the voice was coming from. Archie thoroughly enjoyed himself and felt quite sorry when it came to an end. He hoped someone might comment about his fine voice but he saw only faint grins from those around him.

  ‘I enjoyed that,’ he said as they left the chapel. The minister shook their hands as they left.

  ‘And was that your voice I heard during the final hymn?’ he said unsmilingly to the boy.

  ‘Yes, sir. That is, I don’t know, sir,’ he replied uncertainly.

  ‘Someone teaching you to sing are they?’ he continued.

  ‘Not really. We sing at school a bit. I knew that one. So I could sing out.’

  ‘Do you always try to sing in harmony?’ the minister said with a severe expression.

  ‘I dunno. I don’t think so. I don’t know what a harmony is.’

  ‘I see. Well, once you have learned the melody line thoroughly, you might find harmonising something you could try. Until then, I suggest you practise the melody a little more. You might sing quite well one day. You could even join the church choir. Good day to you all.’

  The minister turned back inside and shut the door behind him.

  ‘What was all that about?’ his mother asked. ‘All I heard was you bellowing out of tune. I think the minister was trying to be kind. You’ll sing in tune in future, son. None of your fancy harmon-a-thinging. Never felt so embarrassed in my life. Everyone turning round and all.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Archie said sadly. He went pink and looked down at his scruffy shoes. ‘Anyway, that’s how I sing at school. They don’t seem bothered. Are we going home now?’

  ‘Aye,’ his father nodded. ‘Let’s go and get to that roast dinner. I can smell it cooking from here.’ Archie looked at his dad in amazement.

  ‘Can you really?’ He sniffed the grimy air but could smell only the smoke from the hundreds of fires, stoked up far beyond their normal heat to provide hot ovens to cook special Christmas meals. He shrugged and lost himself in his private dreams, where he could make pictures of beautiful things, shapes, colours that lived only in his imagination. He might do a drawing when he got home. In his new book. Mum would be busy and Dad would probably go to sleep so he’d have the chance.

  ‘Christmas is all right, isn’t it?’ the boy remarked.

  New Year’s Day blew in with a ferocious wind.

  ‘Aren’t you working today, Dad?’ Archie asked. His Dad rarely took holidays.

  ‘Bad luck, son. Miners don’t work New Year’s Day. Not that the managers like it but it’s a tradition, sort of.’ It was a bit like having an extra Sunday that week.

  January was bitterly cold. The wind blew mercilessly along the backs of the houses in the Barnetts’ terrace. It whistled through every gap in the window frames and under doors. They stuffed anything they could find across the doorways but the temperature never seemed to rise above freezing. Archie was used to it and seemed a sturdy enough child. Little Ralph William was less fortunate. He caught a cold and spent several days gasping for his breath. Frances was desperate to know what to do. She put a brick in the oven to warm up, wrapping it in an old sheet before putting it into the drawer that acted as a cot for the baby.

  ‘Goose grease is what we really need. A piece of brown paper to wrap round him and goose grease.’

  ‘Someone must have had a goose for Christmas,’ Dad said.

  ‘Isn’t there a bit of chicken fat left?’ Archie suggested. ‘It might work.’

  Doubtfully, his mother spread a little of the fat over the baby’s chest. It stank. She put a brown paper bag over it and wrapped the thin shawl over the top. Despite her efforts, his sniffs seemed to keep all the family awake at night. All the same, somehow the sickly child survived.

  ‘He’s a fighter all right,’ Mum said.

  In February, Archie was called into the headmaster’s office.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, just in case he’d done something wrong.

  ‘Sorry, lad? I’m not. Do you know what you’ve done?’

  ‘No, sir. But I didn’t mean to. Honest.’ He was so busily racking his brains to remember what he’d done wrong that he didn’t even hear what his teacher was saying.

  ‘Relax, lad. Archie Barnett, you’ve only gone and won a scholarship to the grammar school. Well done, my boy. I’m proud of you. There’s not a lot of lads around these parts can make it to the grammar but you’ve done it.’ The head was showing a degree of emotion none of the boys had ever seen before. Archie stood there, unable to speak. Not only had he survived the interview without getting a beating, he had got his scholarship to the grammar school. He grinned. He’d done it. He’d achieved his first ambition. The head was holding out his hand to the pupil and Archie shyly shook the proffered hand.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be a credit to your school. Good luck.’

  Archie left the room and went back to his class. Despite his own delight, the dingy room looked exactly the same as it had before.

  ‘Well done, Archie,’ Mr Gladstone said proudly. ‘I can tell you all now. Archie has gained his scholarship. He’s the first pupil from this school of ours ever to gain this honour. Shall we give him a round of applause?’ Uncertainly, the rest of the class clapped. Archie blushed to the roots of his hair. He didn’t know where to look.

  At the end of the day, he ran all the way home, anxious to tell his parents the good news. He was the first boy to gain a scholarship from the school and the teachers were proud of him, he rehearsed the words. He decided to save his news until after tea, when both parents were ready to listen. At last, the time came.

  ‘Mum. Dad. I’ve had a bit of news today.’

  ‘Have you now. Well, I’ve got some for you,’ replied Dad. ‘I had word with Mr Copestake last week, and he’s willing to give you a try out at the pit. There now, what do you think of that?’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘You say thanks to your Dad. Be grateful you’ll be able to do a bit to help this family.’

  ‘Yes, thanks, Dad. I still want to do something else, though. I don’t want to work at the pit.’

  ‘I know, lad. But it’s steady work and the money gets better once you get to work in one of the teams.’

  ‘I know but . . . W
ell, I’ve heard today that I got that scholarship. Nobody from our school’s ever got one before. The teachers are all very pleased with me.’

  ‘Oh, lad. How could you? I thought you’d given up on all that stuff. You need to bring in some money.’

  ‘I thought the war’d soon be over and then things’ll be all right again. I could go to the high school. Just for a bit. See how I get on.’

  ‘It’s not just the school. You’d have to have books and paper and all that. And clothes. You couldn’t go in your Dad’s old cast-offs. They have uniforms there and you’d stand out like chapel hat pegs if you didn’t have the right things.’

  ‘I’m sure summat could be found,’ Archie said helplessly. He could see all his dreams fading away into his father’s precious job at the pit head. He’d have to become a miner like his dad. It was what people did, round here.

  ‘S’pose I’d better tell them I don’t want to go, then,’ he said sadly, rising from the table.

  ‘Clear the table, lad,’ his Dad said. ‘Can’t leave it all to your Mam to do.’ Obediently, Archie picked up the dirty plates and cutlery. If he went to work at the mine, what chance did he ever have of making beautiful things for people to have in their homes? Fine china with flowers and gold patterns. Models of fine ladies and animals. He’d do animals. If big vases were too difficult, he’d make tiny ones. Miniature ones. But it was all just a dream. His future lay at the mine. He could hear the dull murmur of his parents’ voices as they talked. He couldn’t hear their words but he could guess what they were talking about. His dreams were disappearing into the dirty black grime of life as a miner. His body would carry the black crescents of coal dust, just like his father. Black crescents so deeply carved into his skin they looked like tattoos covering his arms and chest. One day he’d grow up and discover he’d got some girl pregnant and be saddled with a family. Some of the older lads talked about it. Billy Machin said his big brother had got some girl from Burslem in the family way and they had to get married. He’d laughed when Archie asked him what he meant and if it was such a problem, why had he done it?