by Maggie Hope
Lottie had no real excuse. She had been away in West Stanley, but she could have walked to Durham, it wasn’t so far. She could have tried to find Betty when she left the workhouse, but she had not. She felt hopelessly guilty and there were no excuses for her, she realized.
‘I’m sorry, Betty,’ she whispered.
‘Do not be sorry for me,’ Betty replied. ‘I’m all right. Me and Alf are going to get wed. He promised me.’
‘Oh Betty, you’re not old enough to get wed!’
‘Aye, I am,’ Betty asserted. ‘Alf says I am.’
‘Betty, can I have a scone?’ Mattie, who had been lingering in the doorway of the kitchen, asked. There was a tray of scones, just out of the oven, on the fender.
‘Go on then,’ said Betty. ‘Then go on out and play, lad.’
‘Will I see you before you go back?’ Mattie asked Lottie as he took a scone and covered it liberally with blackberry jam from the jar standing open on the table.
Lottie promised him he would.
When he had gone, the two girls sat down on the settle.
‘I’m having a bairn,’ said Betty, blurting it out suddenly.
Lottie nodded. ‘I can see that,’ she replied. ‘It’s Alf Green’s, is it?’
Betty nodded. ‘Why aye, it is. So we’re going to be wed. I told you.’
‘Do you love him, Betty?’
‘I do that.’ But Betty looked uncertain, as though she wasn’t quite sure what love meant.
‘I suppose he’s away at Thornley Chapel,’ Lottie said bitterly. ‘He’s a bloody hypocrite.’
‘Nay, he’s not at chapel,’ declared Betty. ‘He’s stopped going to chapel. No, he’s away to the card school at Thornley. Last week he won three pounds! He reckons he’ll spend it on the bairn when it’s born.’
‘If he doesn’t lose it this week,’ said Lottie.
‘He won’t, he said he’d leave it here,’ said Betty, but she looked even more uncertain.
‘Did they throw him out of the chapel because of the bairn?’ asked Lottie.
‘No, we’re going to be wed, I told you. No, it’s because someone saw him at the pitch and toss, a snitcher, that’s what. You know how they don’t like the gambling. But Alf makes money at the gambling, he does, I told you. Why should he give it up? It hurts nobody, does it?’
‘Well …’ Lottie began, thinking of all the lives she had heard of being ruined by even such a small game as pitch and toss penny. But she could see it was no good saying that to Betty. The lass was simply trying to make the best of her situation. She changed her tack.
‘How old were you when Alf got into your bed?’ she asked.
‘Old enough,’ Betty mumbled, her cheeks turning to beetroot. ‘Any road, it’s none of your business. He loves me, he says he does.’
‘You’re barely fifteen now,’ said Lottie. ‘You’re still a bairn.’
‘I’m not! I’m a woman now, doesn’t this show I am?’
Betty put a hand on the bump under her pinny. Her voice trembled and she looked close to tears. Lottie decided she was doing no good, no good at all. It would only hurt the lass if she told her about Alf and what he’d done to her, Lottie.
This sort of thing happened so often to girls from the workhouse. They were sent out as skivvies to whoever wanted them and no real checks were made on them and how they were being treated. She herself had been so lucky to get away, and lucky that Bertha had found her and taken her to the Collier family. She could have ended up on the streets, or at worst, in the River Wear.
‘Mebbe Alf Green will marry you,’ she said. ‘Mebbe you will be fine.’
‘Aye he will,’ Betty replied. ‘He will, I’m telling you. You needn’t worry about me. You never did before, did you?’
Guilt descended once again on Lottie’s shoulders. She should have looked the girl up and made sure she was all right. But so should the Parish Officers, she thought after she said goodbye and promised to come back again.
‘Send Mattie to let me know if you need me,’ she said to Betty as she went out. ‘Promise me you will. He’ll be able to leave a note at the Durham Post.’
Surely Mr Jeremiah wouldn’t mind that? she thought, as she walked along the row. No, he would not, he was such a lovely man.
She turned the corner and back to the playing field but the lads had gone on, probably to the quoits alley, for she could hear excited voices from there. As she walked back over the fields, she wondered if Mr Jeremiah would be interested in the story of Betty and the other workhouse girls like her. He might well be, she decided.
Chapter Fourteen
‘The Bonnie Pit Laddie’ was on the third page of the Durham Post on the following Saturday and beneath it there was a short biography of the writer, the paper’s newest apprentice.
‘You done good,’ said Jackson. ‘Mind, I’m glad I don’t have to go down the pit when I read that. How do you know about what it’s like?’
‘I have friends in the pit,’ sad Lottie. She smiled at the boy. He was the same height as she was, about five feet, but still only fourteen. Jackson was his baptismal name; his full name was Jackson Hadaway. Quite a lot of boys were christened with their mother’s maiden name.
Lottie had been working at the paper for five and a half days and it felt as if she had been there for weeks. She spent most of her time in the office or running errands, doing much the same work as Jackson. It had been a great thrill for her the day before when she had seen her story actually in print for the first time and her name above it. And now the paper was on the streets being sold in the marketplace, on Elvet Bridge, Silver Street, everywhere. She was in heaven, she felt. Oh, please don’t let me wake up and find it was all a dream.
Maybe the readers would hate her story of the lad who went down the pit at six and sat on a cracket by a doorway, opening the leather curtain to allow the corves to pass through and closing it afterwards so that if there was a pocket of firedamp and it took hold there would not be a clear passage for the resultant fire. A lad who begged candle stumps from the miners going off shift for when his own ran out and he was frightened of the black dark. Of course, in the modern times of the 1870s, they had Stephenson safety lamps, not candles, but it hadn’t been so long ago when there were no safety lamps.
‘Lottie!’
The shout came from the front office, the one open to the public. She left Jackson to finish mashing the tea and hurried through. Mr Scott, Mr Jeremiah’s father, was there behind the counter, while in front of it was an august-looking gentleman with a copy of the newly published Post in his hand.
‘Yes, Mr Scott?’
‘This gentleman is Dr Welles. He is from the university. Dr Welles, this is the author of the story you have come here to discuss.’
If Lottie had not been in considerable awe of the learned doctor she would have laughed at his astonished expression. As it was, she blushed, held out her hand and withdrew it quickly when it became obvious that he was ignoring it. He appeared speechless, but he soon recovered. Dismissing Lottie with a cool glance, he turned back to Mr Scott.
‘What do you mean by this, sir?’ he demanded. ‘Are you telling me a wild tale?’ He shook the paper he was holding in Mr Scott’s face. ‘It says in your paper, sir, that this disgraceful story was written by Mr L. Lonsdale. Now you say it was by this chit of a woman. I will not be played with! I …’
‘This is Miss Lottie Lonsdale,’ interposed Mr Scott. ‘Now, as I gather you have a complaint, I will call my son, the editor. It is he you should speak to. Meanwhile I suggest you treat our staff with proper respect.’
He walked over to the speaking tube on the wall and turned the handle. In the distance there was the sound of a jangling bell.
‘Jeremiah?’ he said after a moment. ‘There is someone here to see you, a Dr Welles from the university.’ He listened with his ear to end of the tube for a moment, then put it back on its hook and returned to the counter.
‘If you would be so kind, Dr We
lles,’ he said formally. ‘Miss Lonsdale will show you up to the editor’s office.’
The learned doctor coughed loudly, glared at Mr Scott and followed Lottie up the stairs, past the open door of the room where the now silent printing presses were housed and on up to the top of the building to Mr Jeremiah’s office. She knocked and opened the door in response to his ‘Enter!’ and ushered Dr Welles in, before going back out and closing the door behind her.
Outside in the passage, Jackson popped out of the room next door, where he had been hovering, and winked at her.
‘Ould sod,’ he said amiably.
‘I thought doctors were supposed to be kind folk,’ said Lottie. ‘I wouldn’t like him looking after me if I was badly.’
Jackson laughed. ‘He’s not that kind of doctor, Lottie,’ he explained. ‘Nay, he’s a Doctor of Divinity when he’s at the university.’ He had only found out the difference himself a few weeks before, when Mr Jeremiah had explained it to him, but he enjoyed showing off his superior knowledge to Lottie.
Lottie could hear the murmur of voices from inside the office. Now and again she could make out a word as the voices got louder, so she walked along to the head of the stairs, for she did not want Mr Jeremiah to think she was listening at the door. She was there for only a minute or two when the door opened and Mr Jeremiah and the visitor came out, Mr Jeremiah calling for Jackson.
‘Show the reverend doctor, out, Jackson,’ he said to the boy, then, ‘Lottie, come in here a moment please.’ He held the door open for Lottie as he bid the doctor good day.
‘You will hear more of this,’ warned Dr Welles and marched off after Jackson, his moustaches quivering.
‘I will look forward to it, sir,’ the newspaperman replied. He followed Lottie into his office and closed the door, then walked around his desk and sat down.
Lottie trembled as she stood before him, rather as she had trembled as she stood before Matron’s desk in the workhouse after some minor misdemeanour. Dr Welles was a reader of the Post and he hadn’t liked her story and maybe other readers wouldn’t like her work and she would be forced to leave the paper. All her dreams would come to nothing.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, not looking up.
‘Why? What for, exactly?’ asked Mr Jeremiah. He sat back and gazed at Lottie. ‘Dr Welles? It’s true he thinks we should not have printed a story about a little pit lad. He thinks the pit folk should not be featured in the Durham Post, that the good people of the town should not have to read such things over their toast and marmalade. But that is his opinion and I suppose he is entitled to it.’
What will I do if I have to leave? The dark thought ran through Lottie’s head and there was an edging of panic to it. She dared not look at Mr Jeremiah. It was a minute before she realized what he was saying now.
‘However, I did not call you in to discuss Dr Welles. I wanted to say that I think you have done well this last week. How do you find the work?’
‘I-I like it, sir,’ she stammered. Mostly it had entailed helping Jackson fetch and carry for the two older reporters, George Petty and Edward Dixon, though Edward was more of an illustrator than a reporter. Lottie was fascinated by the way Edward could sketch a few lines on to a blank page and there, to the life, would be the person he was sketching. Once or twice she had gone out with the two of them on a story and though she was only there to watch and learn she had been filled with the excitement of it. Her thoughts returned to the present as Mr Jeremiah spoke again.
‘Good. And how do you like living at Mrs Price’s house?’
‘I like it there, sir.’
It was different living in the house around the corner to anything Lottie had experienced before. Mrs Price and her daughter, who helped her with the meals and housework, called her Miss Lonsdale, for one thing. It sounded very strange to her ears. The food was plentiful and wholesome and she enjoyed it. Only she would have to get used to one thing. After dinner she was expected to retire to her own small room on the first floor, and consequently she spent more time in her own company than she had ever done in her life and sometimes she felt lonely. But she filled the time by starting another short story.
‘Call me Mr Jeremiah,’ the editor was saying. ‘Everyone else does.’
‘Yes, sir, Mr Jeremiah.’
‘Are you writing another short story?’
Lottie nodded. ‘Aye, I am,’ she said, becoming animated at the thought of her new story and lapsing into the vernacular. ‘It’s about the workhouse. Is that all right, Mr Jeremiah?’
Jeremiah smiled and his eyes twinkled and crinkled up at the corners. His mouth was open to show his teeth and they were white and even with none missing, which was unusual for a man of his age, thought Lottie. He must be almost thirty years old. Most men she knew had few teeth and the ones they had were rotten or discoloured. She had a funny feeling in her insides when she looked at him. She glanced away in case he noticed.
‘When you have finished it I would like you to bring it for me to read. But I wanted to see you about something else. I want you to learn how to use a writing machine.’
‘A writing machine?’
‘That’s right. I have one on order and when it arrives you will be spending some time learning how to use it. Now, I think you should have the rest of the day off. Saturdays are quiet days, as we have put the paper to bed on Friday. Be back here at eight o’clock sharp on Monday. Now run along, Lottie.’
Lottie felt elated and at the same time apprehensive as she put on her cape and bonnet. She had heard of writing machines, of course she had, but she had not actually seen one. Was it difficult to learn to use one? She walked around the corner to her lodging and let herself in, before going straight upstairs to her room.
Half an hour later Lottie set off walking towards Gilesgate to visit Eliza. It was a sunny day but with a chill breeze, but still she was glad to be out in the fresh air and sunshine. As she walked along, her mind was on the plot of her story. It was a tale of the Miners’ Gala, when miners from all over the county converged on the city and then frightened the city folk by their very presence among them. Hundreds and thousands of them, marching through the streets and following their brass bands down to the field by the river, where they had a meeting. Men such as Dr Welles; she pictured him in her mind’s eye, looking outraged (by, Edward Dixon would be able to make a grand cartoon of him, he would).
Lottie was taken up with the idea. She pictured the young putters taking hold of the man and throwing him up in the air over and over again and finally tossing him in the Wear. It was a grand thought and just what a lot of the nobs were afraid of.
She sighed as she turned into the street in Gilesgate where Eliza and Peter lived. It wouldn’t happen, it couldn’t. It would be like that time in Manchester she had read about, only at Peterloo, as the meeting came to be named, the militia had been called out and there had been people hurt, even killed, and bairns an’ all. Lottie shivered. Dear God, she thought, do not let it happen here.
‘Good morning!’ she called as she let herself in the unlocked door of her friend’s house. Eliza came through from the kitchen with the baby Anne on her hip and a beaming smile on her face.
‘Lottie!’ she cried. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you until tomorrow.’ The smile was replaced by an anxious expression for a moment. ‘You haven’t lost your place, have you?’
‘No, I have not!’ Lottie replied. ‘In fact Mr Jeremiah says he’s very pleased with me. No, I have the afternoon off, that’s all. We put the paper to bed on a Friday and so there’s not much to do on Saturdays. Oh, Eliza, Mr Jeremiah’s grand to work for.’
Eliza laughed. ‘Howay through to the kitchen and we can have a talk over a cup of tea.’
Lottie followed her along the passage and as they entered the kitchen the back door opened and Tot came in.
‘Mother …’ he began, then stopped when he saw Lottie. His whole demeanour changed. Where before he had been slouching forward and looking uninteres
ted, suddenly he was almost swaggering and his dark blue eyes, so like his mother’s, were twinkling in a broad smile.
‘How nice to see you, Lottie,’ he said and she went pink. She put up a hand and pushed her metal-rimmed spectacles up her nose. Oh, how she wished she did not have to wear them, she did indeed. Lads were not attracted to lasses who wore spectacles, she knew that. Not that she had cared before, being too intent on getting an education and succeeding as a writer, and she still was. But Tot must be just playing with her, looking at her like he did. He wasn’t serious.
‘Hello,’ she said softly. She had a copy of the Durham Post in her hand and she held it out to Eliza. ‘My story is in it,’ she said simply.
‘Aye, you said it would be,’ Eliza replied. ‘Come on then, sit down and we’ll have a read of it. I’ll just mash the tea first.’
‘I’ll read it out loud, if I may,’ said Tot.
Tot spoke nicely, as the masters had taught him at his school, but still with a trace of local accent. As he read about the miners and their families walking through the boarded-up streets of Durham she was reminded of the time, still talked about in the north-east, when George Stephenson put his plans for a national railway system before the House of Commons and how the members had laughed at his thick accent and derided him for not being a gentleman. Perhaps the masters were right in getting the lads to modify their local accents if they wanted to get on in the outside world. Tot finished the tale of the small boy in the pit who was frightened of the dark and handed the paper back to Lottie with a smile.
‘It is interesting, Lottie,’ he said and she felt a small quiver of disappointment.
‘You didn’t like it,’ she said.
‘Yes, I did,’ he protested. ‘Only, why do you not write about something everyone is interested in? Most people don’t want to know about grubby little pit lads.’
‘Thomas!’
Eliza was angry and shocked that he should say or even think such a thing.
She frowned at him.
‘Well, it’s true,’ he said, but he flushed a little with embarrassment as he remembered his mother’s brothers were miners.
