Walter slipped his arm across Tim’s shoulders. Tim struggled to follow the thread of the conversation but it was hopeless. Instead he thought of the splintered wood in the front door frame. He called, ‘I could mend that door frame for you, Heine, where someone has taken something down; I’ll sand it, even stain it. It would be neater.’
The men looked from one to another, then at Heine. Silence had fallen. Tim wondered what he had said. Heine pointed his cigar towards his plate, and the ash crumpled onto it. The end glowed red and grey. He said, ‘Why not? The tenants were careless to damage SS property. It was not noticed in time and I had forgotten. Thank you for bringing it to my attention once more.’
Tim shook his head. ‘It is only a small job, so I’ll fix it tomorrow.’
Bruno and Hans, who sat next to one another, grimaced. Bruno said, ‘Nothing should have been removed. Perhaps it should be mentioned to them, should it not, my comrades? After all, they are now living rent free.’ They were grinning at one another.
Heine shook his head slightly, frowning at them. Tim sipped his coffee. Walter was laughing quietly beside him. Bruno pressed on, his face sweaty, his eyes those of someone who really should not have any more booze. ‘It is a training camp, one might say.’
Heine called, ‘Do not bore our guest, Bruno.’
Tim smiled at Heine. ‘I’m not bored at all.’
Heine exhaled cigar smoke. Walter suddenly burst into song, squeezing Tim’s shoulders. Hans called across the table, as he slammed his hand down in time with Walter’s discordant notes. ‘Do you know the Horst Wessel song, Tim? He died for us, did Wessel, fighting the Reds. You and your Blackshirts should learn it, because you are our friends, and Germany needs friends. We all need friends, and peaceful neighbours.’
Tim raised his coffee cup. ‘Like Sir Anthony. To friendship and peace,’ he said, knowing that Walter lived on one side of number fourteen, but wondering what the neighbours thought on the other side. Would they get any sleep tonight?
The men around the table were lifting their brandy goblets. Had the bottle gone round again already? ‘To friendship,’ they bellowed. He wished they wouldn’t as the noise killed his head, and the poor buggers next door must want to punch a few noses.
Bruno said, ‘France, our neighbour, wants peace, too. They proved it by letting Hitler take back the Rhineland with no protests. Our Führer leads us well. He knows his tomatoes, I think you would say in Britain.’
‘I think it would be “knows his onions”, though you all speak such good English.’ A full brandy bottle replaced the empty one and began its way round the table.
Walter was watching the bottle’s progress as he muttered, ‘We aspire to the SD, the intelligence branch, just as does your step-father. He has the advantage of your mother, though. She teaches us well. It is good to know English. She is useful to us. Language, contacts . . .’
Heine shouted from the top of the table, ‘Walter.’ It was a warning. Walter flushed, slipped his arm from Tim’s shoulders and reached for the brandy.
‘Your mother teaches us English well, young Tim,’ he said.
He poured more brandy into his goblet, then put a slug into Tim’s coffee cup, which meant if he wanted more coffee he had to sup up. He passed the bottle on, drank his brandy, and knew immediately he shouldn’t have. He reached for the coffee pot.
Walter hadn’t finished, though, and Tim wished he had, because he was too close, shouting into his face, his spittle spraying like a shower head. ‘You need to clear out your mediocre politicians and find your own Führer, then you too could have a grand apartment.’ He gulped his brandy, then coughed. Spluttering, he held a handkerchief to his mouth and waved the conversation on.
The men laughed, and talked amongst themselves, and Tim understood not a word. He sipped his coffee, which was cold, but it didn’t matter. He studied the chandelier; the crystal glittered and illuminated the fine frieze around the ceiling. Was Amala still working in the kitchen? Was Bridie too, at Easterleigh Hall? He shouldn’t have been so damned rude to her, but she had annoyed him.
He sank back in his chair, letting the talk whirl around him, the laughter, the cigars; he loved it all, except for the smoke. His Uncle Aub liked cigars, but his da didn’t, thank heavens, because they stank. Bruno was singing, and Hans rose, staggered, then found his balance, walking towards Tim as only the drunk can, and slumped down next to him, in Millie’s empty seat. He put his arm round Tim’s shoulders, and Walter, not to be outdone, slumped his arm around him again. The weight of the two of them almost crushed him but he felt proud to be accepted by these men, who had endured the same war as his da. It made him feel almost an equal.
Hans shouted in his ear, ‘You are in the company of strong men tonight. You see our gold badges?’ He pointed at Otto, who was directly opposite, his arms waving like windmills as he conducted the singing. Hanging on the back of his chair was his jacket. Tim saw a gold badge. He nodded.
Hans said, ‘Yes, we are all holders of the Gold Honour Badge, because we are amongst the earliest to join the Nazi Party. It is we who carved a hard and bloody path through the rabble, making a future for our party. Darwin said it first, our Führer second: the fittest survive and the defeated deserve nothing. You think my English is good? I think so too.’ He laughed so loud he coughed, and knocked Tim forwards.
The singing had stopped, and the others were listening. Hans banged the table with his fist. Coughed once more, then lowered his voice, wagging his finger at Tim. ‘You, my boy, must listen to experts. We say, don’t we, my comrades, put up your posters about your fascist meeting, taunt the Reds in your pubs in the days before. They will come to attack when you meet, so angry have you made them. You will be the defenders, then, to your community. Soon you will be seen as a force for law and order. You will become admired.’
It all seemed sensible but suddenly the room began to spin. He gripped the table and felt the bile rising in his throat. Oh, God. He stared at the silver salt cellar. They were all singing again. Oh, God. Walter and Hans belched brandy and sour cigar breath over him.
Hans and Walter looked surprised as he eased himself from beneath their arms. He nodded to Heine, who was watching him carefully. Tim didn’t dare open his mouth. He nodded goodnight, and staggered to his own room. Somehow he removed his clothes and hung them, before crawling beneath the bed covers and praying that the room would stop spinning soon. Never again would a drop of alcohol pass his lips.
Chapter Six
Easterleigh Hall, June 1936
Bridie and James caught the bus to Hawton on Sunday at ten in the morning. They had wangled it as their day off after they heard about the trouble at the British Union of Fascists meeting the day before, and decided they needed to make a reconnaissance trip. Bridie had a basket on her lap containing sandwiches, which Mrs Moore had pressed on her, saying, ‘You might need these, if you’re hiking around and about.’
As the bus jolted into and out of a pothole, she saw that James was chewing his thumbnail. She tapped his hand away. ‘You’re too old for that.’
James frowned. ‘You’re as bad as Mrs Moore with your nagging, child that you are.’
In front of them an old man turned around, chuckling. ‘Right canny lass, our Bridie is an’ all, man.’ He touched his cap to Bridie. ‘Young Tom Welsh’s picked up no end. He’s walking good as new on that leg the Neave Wing made him, using just the one stick, he is. Up with you for an hour on Prancer later, isn’t he?’
Bridie swallowed. She’d forgotten. She groped through her memory and finally said, ‘Four o clock, isn’t it, Mr Burton?’
‘That’s the one.’ He turned to the front as the bus pulled into a stop and picked up Mr and Mrs Young, bound for chapel at Hawton. James pressed his arm against hers and whispered into her ear. ‘We’ll make sure we’re back. It’s only for a look, and to plan.’
‘We must be or da’ll kill me.’ What she really thought was that she’d want to drop through the ground if
she missed it, so her da wouldn’t have to kill her. She leaned back, moving with the bus, the basket heavy on her lap. Tim had been back at work in Newcastle for two weeks and hadn’t been to Easton to see anyone, not even Aunt Gracie or Uncle Jack. But had he been at the violent Hawton BUF meeting last night?
The bus trundled on, and she could imagine it almost panting as it revved itself up and over a bridge. It was one mile to Hawton now; its slag heaps smouldered in the distance, and the draught through the open windows was heavy with sulphur.
Had Uncle Mart, who managed Hawton Pit, heard the fighting? Had he seen Tim? Would he tell his marra, Uncle Jack, if he had? Would she?
James was chewing his thumbnail again. ‘What do we do if we see him?’ he whispered. ‘Not sure we should have come, Bridie.’
‘We need to know,’ she whispered back.
‘Then what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, but it’s what we decided, you daft bugger.’
She wasn’t whispering now, and Mr Burton turned his head slightly and said, ‘You’ll be having your mouth washed out with soap, young Bridie, if Evie gets to hear that talk in public.’
James leaned forward. ‘You make sure you tell Aunt Evie, Mr Burton. She could do with another clip round the ear.’ They both laughed.
Bridie murmured, ‘Enough of that, or I’ll tip your cap out of the window, Mr Burton.’
‘Fighting talk,’ Mr Burton cackled.
When the bus pulled up at the market square, they followed the others off and slipped away, weaving through the back streets, as good people hustled to church, the women in their best, the men in suits. All the time the winding gear loomed; the sulphur was all-pervading.
On corners, groups of miners murmured, their heads close together. Some children swung from ropes attached to lamp posts. It was Sunday: no school, no washing or ironing, just church, or chapel. James kicked back a football to a group of lads, made of scrunched-up newspaper sewn inside a child’s jumper. It was light and the breeze took it, but one lad was after it like lightning, calling, ‘Thanks, mister.’
They took a turn left, but it was the wrong way. James tried a right, down between the backs of terraces. A wireless was playing church music in the scullery of one house. A dog barked in the yard of another, working itself into a frenzy as they passed. They came out onto Warton Street. ‘It’s up here,’ Evie said. ‘It should be on the corner, shouldn’t it?’
James nodded. They both slowed, uncertain suddenly. Evie grabbed his elbow. ‘Come on, we’re only having a look, and he might not be there. Surely he wouldn’t be violent? Surely?’
James didn’t answer, just stepped out a little faster until they turned the corner. A group of miners milled on the pavement, peering towards the Meeting House across the road. Two of them eased away and propped themselves up against the side wall of the end of the terrace, rolling cigarettes.
The Meeting House was a hive of activity, with bangs and crashes coming from inside. Outside, there was a sound almost like chalk scratching on a blackboard as one man swept the glass from the broken windows into a heap. Another shovelled the piles into a wheelbarrow. Next to Bridie one man said to another, ‘Aye, well, the Reds didn’t half come with a wallop, so what d’you expect them Blackies to do? Gotta defend yerself, man. Stands to reason. Anyone came at me with an iron bar, he’d get a bloody fist ’n’ all.’
Another man crossed the road from the left and walked along the pavement towards them, his boots crashing into the ground. He pushed past Bridie, his cap well down, a Woodbine hanging limp from his mouth. He shoved in between the men in the front, saying, ‘Shut your noise, Sammy. Aye, I’d have stormed the buggers, an’ all, for whipping up trouble like they did the days before. This is our town, our pit, and they come in here from God knows where, dropping them flyers, talking their talk in the pubs. Crazy buggers. They might as well have given invites to go along and smash ’em to smithereens, so think on, man.’
‘Big Jim’s got a point, Sammy,’ one of the men leaning against the wall called.
The group laughed, without amusement. Sammy tipped his cap back. ‘Now you put it like that . . .’
‘I bloody do, man,’ Big Jim muttered, then raised his voice against the clatter and crash of glass, as the last bits clinging to the window frame were bashed out. ‘There’s a good few pitmen going over to this lot, forgetting their roots. Right fascist pigs, they are, clever ’n’ all. Get your brains in gear, or this lot’ll bash ’em out on the pavement, and it’s that they’ll be sweeping up next.’
He shouldered on past the group, who looked after him. One man said, ‘He’s right, yer know.’
Another ground out his stub on the pavement and toed it to the gutter with his hobnailed boots. ‘Hush your noise, Bob. We need someone to take on t’owners, and this lot seem to have some ideas.’
James looked at Bridie. He was listening as hard as she was. Two women made their way past, one pushing a pram. The baby was crying. Perhaps, thought Bridie, he’s full of common sense and doesn’t like the sound of banging, crashing and men putting the world to rights.
One of the men leaning back against the wall, the same one as before, shouted across, ‘What are you talking about? We’re right well looked after at Mart’s pit and at Easton, and it’s said that they’re setting up some sort of co-op, like at the Hall hotel. Do I have to bloody spell it out, Sammy, and you too, Ted, that the workers’ll get shares, or some’at like that, so they gets some of the profits? What do you bloody want, bells on it? We’ll be the bloody owners then, without breaking windows, or heads.’
The conversation was interrupted again, this time by a load of bairns, running along, elbowing one another, shouting, ‘First there gets the gobstopper.’
The men parted, then closed again, like the Red Sea, Evie thought. Sammy wasn’t finished. ‘Aye, and what if it’s a load of hot air.’
James gripped her arm and nodded towards the shop. ‘There he is, inside.’
Bridie saw Tim in his black uniform, talking to another man, also in uniform. The man was patting Tim on the back and they were shaking hands, laughing. Why, when their Meeting House was in such a state?
Bridie and James stood there, ignoring the buffeting of people pushing past them, just staring at their cousin. Bridie wanted to rush across and drag him away, back to Easton, back to them all.
James muttered, ‘I didn’t really believe it. Not really, but to see him there, looking exactly like a fascist . . .’ He turned to Bridie, his face pale and anguished. ‘Which means he really is one, Bridie. I needed to see it to believe it, here, inside.’
For a moment they stood there, speechless. On the pavement the men still argued, the children still raced along. Together, hand in hand, they walked back down Warton Street. The lads were still playing football. One kicked it towards James. ‘Give us a kick, mister.’
He kicked it back, barely looking. They walked to the bus stop, gripping hands all the way, neither able to speak, though Bridie’s mind jolted with each step. He was a miner’s son. He was part of a family that was socialist. How could he wear a uniform that stood for so much that none of them could bear?
‘How could he?’ she asked.
‘Because he can,’ James said quietly. She had never seen him so angry. Or was it anger? There was something else there as well.
He squeezed her hand. ‘He’s his own man, or perhaps his mother’s man, and nothing to do with us any more.’ His voice broke. She stared ahead.
Church must have finished, because there were women grouped around doorsteps; others walked towards them, in their smarts. Some were in a hurry. Her da said the vicar, priest or minister had to time it right: church doors shut, pub doors open.
She looked up at the sky. It was blue with a few white clouds. It was all as it had been when they woke, but nothing was the same.
James sat next to her on the bus to Easton. ‘We’ll need to think, because we must protest, and it’s nothing to do with him. We’d
do it anyway.’
‘Yes,’ she said, but neither knew what they were really going to do. It was just noise.
They left the bus at Easton Co-op, when it parked up prior to its return journey to Hawton. They tramped the lanes, watching the larks, seeing that the wheat was ripening, and the lambs were fattening. They diverted to the beck, hurrying now, because it was ‘home’. But when they arrived, it wasn’t, because usually it was the three of them.
‘I feel so useless because I can’t change what’s happening with him,’ James said.
They returned to the road, walking along to the bridge. They gave their sandwiches to the boys leaning over, trying to catch minnows with jam jars.
‘By, Bridie, that’s grand, right nice cheese.’ Jonny Earnshaw was lifting the corners of the sandwich and showing off the innards to his gang. ‘Tell your mam, or Mrs Moore, that it’s a sight better than bread and dripping, any day. ’ His face was grubby, his father out of work. Bridie knew that Uncle Jack was trying to pump out an old seam to bring in the last few pitmen.
She hadn’t known about the co-op idea, but just for once she would keep quiet. News like that had to be confirmed before it was given out as fact, even she knew that. Even she, she wanted to scream, so there, Tim Forbes, I’m not just a stupid child.
Jonny was staring at her. ‘Your lug ’oles gone deaf, then, Bridie?’
She came back to the present and replied, ‘I will tell ’em, bonny lad. Enjoy the sandwiches.’ Mrs Moore would more than likely slap their wrists if they brought them back, convinced that they were on the point of starvation.
James leaned over the bridge, rubbing at the lichen. ‘You’ve a good lot of minnows down there. Put ’em back before you leave, eh, lads.’
‘Always do, James.’ They pulled the jam jars out. The string dripped. They counted them up and scratched the various totals in the lichen, then tipped them out in a shower of water. They lowered the jars again, then hunkered down, their knees grubby. They were eating before Bridie and James continued on their way.
A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel Page 6
