A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel

by Margaret Graham

  She asked Kevin to take in two bottles of cognac, then she walked from the kitchen to the stables. She hung over Prancer’s stall, talking to him, her mind working. Perhaps these Blackshirts really were a movement for peace, or why else was Sir Anthony involved? But what about the fighting, what about Cable Street? What about the liking for the Nazis?

  ‘Life’s a tricky beast, isn’t it, Prancer pet?’ He nuzzled her cap, then her neck. ‘You stay in your stall; it’s simpler, lad.’

  She was tired now, but still had to collect Ron’s accounts which he wanted her father to check. She didn’t know why Ron liked the upstairs study, but he said he could think more clearly there. The others used the one along from the kitchen, which Uncle Richard had organised.

  She gave Prancer one last pat, and hurried down the steps into the kitchen, then up the stairs into the grand hall. The lights were on in the sitting room, and she could hear the murmur of voices. She checked to see if any of the regular guests needed anything. Mr and Mrs Stansfield and their daughter were chatting quietly. She waved as Mrs Stansfield grinned at her. ‘Lovely meal again, Bridie. We so enjoy coming. Thomas sends his regards to you all, and a big kiss for Matron, though I will not be the one to deliver that.’

  ‘If you want to live, please do not. Do you need anything?’

  ‘Nothing more, but thank you.’

  ‘Just ring if you do.’

  She carried on up the stairs, smiling at Kevin, who sat behind the reception desk and would stay there until the last guest had gone to bed, or left the hotel. Thomas had been a wartime brain injury. Well, not quite brain, perhaps mind-injured would be better, or so Mam said. He had made a steady recovery, though it had taken time. He was now a surgeon. She made her way along the landing. A soft light spilled from the study, and she approached, puzzled, hearing movement. She stopped in the half-open doorway, then pushed it open quietly. Tim stood in front of the oil painting which hid the safe.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  He spun round at the sound of her voice, his shock clear. ‘I thought you’d gone home.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t. What on earth are you doing?’

  He moved to the desk. ‘I was talking to Sir Anthony about Easterleigh Hall. He said the view from the study windows was wonderful.’

  She pointed to the window. ‘It’s dark.’

  He walked across. ‘No, see, there’s a hunter’s moon. Then I saw the painting. It’s lovely.’

  She didn’t move from the doorway. ‘You’ve seen it before.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Bridie. Sometimes it’s good to touch base with who you are.’ He dragged a hand through his hair. In the light there was even more of a reddish tint. He looked tired, strained. Did he mean it? Was he really thinking about touching base? Her heart leapt and she smiled, moving towards him.

  ‘You’re right, it’s a lovely painting, but not valuable. The safe’s behind it, but it wouldn’t fool a burglar, so nothing important is kept here. In fact, I think it’s empty. But you know all this, so I won’t bore you.’

  He said, ‘Why would I know it? I’ve never actually lived or worked here.’

  That hadn’t occurred to her, because as children, the three of them always seemed to be milling about all over Easterleigh. ‘Come and have a look, lad.’ She swung open the painting.

  He laughed, almost with relief. ‘Who’re you calling lad?’ It was almost as it used to be between them. He was next to her now. She opened the safe. It only had a handle these days, no combination. There were a couple of dusters in it. He said, ‘Isn’t there a back panel?’

  ‘Ah, you have done your spying well.’ She pressed the bottom of the back panel and it opened to reveal – nothing. ‘There, that’s your lot, bonny lad.’ She closed the safe door, conscious of him standing so close that she could smell the cognac on his breath. She closed the painting, dusting off her hands. ‘I must just pick up some accounts for Da. They’ll be on the desk. Ron’s the only one who uses this room now. I think Da keeps everything in his study at Home Farm. Ron wanted Da to double-check his accounts.’

  She picked up what she needed and gestured Tim to the door. He in turn gestured for her to take precedence. ‘Ladies first.’

  ‘You are improving. It’s usually “horrible child”.’

  He half laughed and said, ‘I’m sorry, I should have asked before I poked about. It was rude.’

  She walked ahead of him to the door and waited while he turned off the light. As they left together, Bridie said, ‘You’ve as much right to be here as the rest of the family. You’re one of us, Tim.’

  She stopped herself adding ‘aren’t you?’

  They walked towards the stairs, then he held her back for a moment, gripping her arm, almost whispering, ‘I’m sorry I’ve upset you all, but Millie’s my mother.’

  ‘I know, Tim. I’m sorry too. I thought that all fascists were bad, but now? Oh, I don’t know, because if Sir Anthony wants them round the table at a peace meeting, I suppose . . . Well, I suppose . . .’ She stopped.

  He let go of her arm. ‘You don’t want to believe everything you read in the newspapers, you know, horrible child. Some think we’re a force for good.’ She nudged him as she used to and waited, barely breathing. What would he do?

  He nudged her back. They walked down the stairs, nudging one another and laughing. As he turned right for the private dining room and she went left for the kitchen, and home, he said, ‘I’ll come and see you at Home Farm before I go to see my mother again. How about that, or will you and James run me off with pitchforks?’

  ‘There’ll not be a pitchfork in sight. Nice suit, by the way. Bit like a sore thumb.’

  He shook a fist at her, and walked away. Bridie watched him, feeling strange, because it had been almost as though life was normal between them, but it hadn’t sounded quite right. It was almost as though he had learned his lines.

  Maudie was still there, having chased the scullery girls to bed. Harry was on duty upstairs, and it was Susie’s turn for night call, so she would be coming down from her attic room to doze on the armchair in case any guest rang. Tomorrow night was Bridie’s shift, and she sighed. She left the kitchen, wrapping her coat around her as she half ran up the back steps. Her bike was leaning up against the garage wall. She put the papers in the basket and rode away, too weary to think about anything more tonight.

  Chapter Ten

  Easterleigh Hall, March 1937

  Bridie and the kitchen staff had worked all morning preparing the Sunday roasts. They had decided on a choice of rib of beef or chicken, but no goose. The usual apparent chaos had prevailed, but now that the five thousand were fed, and most of the clearing up was done, they could sit on the stools, sipping tea. Ver said, ‘You’re right, Evie, isn’t she, Bridie?’

  Bridie and Susie looked at one another, puzzled. Ver slipped her cap from her blonde hair, pushing back a few strands, and explained, ‘You know, making goose a Christmas speciality only.’

  Susie muttered, ‘Horrid greasy birds, anyway, and I hate plucking the great beggars.’

  Ver laughed. ‘So, you have a supporter there, Evie.’

  Evie pushed the biscuit plate towards Susie. ‘Then you may have two, because today you are my favourite.’

  Bridie poured herself more tea. The furnace was gurgling on a high note, which meant it was getting hungry. ‘I think it’s a grand idea to use fowl and fish that we use at no other time of year for our Christmas menu. It’s one more thing that Harry can use to interest the newspapers. He’s found a reporter interested in food, and could tell him of our decision. I also think the reporter should be invited to sample new dishes and write it up in his column. I did tell him, and Ron, and Uncle Richard. Is that worth two biscuits too?’

  Evie nodded, ‘Help yourself, because you, too, are my favourite today. The girl has been thinking, not just checking on the workmen every minute. By the way, Ver, have you noticed that there’s a rather handsome young carpenter
helping to put up the all-weather exercise paddock?’

  ‘Oh, Mam,’ Bridie groaned, putting down her mug and heading for the coal bucket. His name was Derek. He was nineteen with a grand smile, and her mam had eyes like a hawk.

  As she topped up the furnace, Ver called, ‘How are Derek’s lovely muscles getting on with the task, anyway?’

  Bridie ignored her, and riddled the furnace loudly. Susie shouted over the noise, ‘They’re working hard. It’s wood, so they can just shove on with it. Sir Anthony’s right good, isn’t he, Evie, to stump up?’

  Now that the conversation was on safer ground, Bridie left the furnace to its own devices and hurried to the scullery to wash her hands. Pearl, one of the scullery staff who lived in Easton, stepped to one side, her spectacles fogged by the steam. ‘Aye, Bridie pet,’ she said. ‘He’s a bit of a saint, our Sir Anthony is an’ all, and your da, because he’s shared the cost, I hear. Them poor wee lambs in Neave Wing’ll soon be able to ride through the worst of the weather. It’s not right their riding has to stop when there’s too much snow on the ground. It’ll be better for Prancer an’ all. His poor old bones must ache all winter. Look at it today – early March, and more snow. Only a bit, though.’

  Bridie dried her hands on the towel hanging to the left of the sinks. ‘His bones are not that old,’ she snapped.

  Her mother called from the kitchen. ‘Didn’t I see James down here when you were busy with the Yorkshire puddings?’

  Bridie didn’t reply immediately, but touched Pearl’s shoulder. ‘Sorry to snap, but he really isn’t that old. You just have to look at him.’

  ‘Aye, lass.’ Pearl’s voice was gentle. She was the wife of a pitman and mother of two bairns, the oldest aged twelve. Bridie wondered if her husband was listening to the strike talk that was coming to the boil around the villages. What her Uncle Jack didn’t need right now was Fred, the communist rep at Lea End, putting pressure on the men of the area to come out. He was such a loud-mouthed idiot and always had been, even at school, her mam said.

  Easton and Hawton were now in full employment with the most recent seam reopened, so Jonny Earnshaw’s dad would be bringing home money. But her Uncle Jack and Uncle Mart were looking more stressed as the days went by, and her da, as owner, was too. What were they doing about the co-op plan? Why didn’t they say anything? Her da said they needed anything like that set in stone, and it would take time.

  Her mam called out again: ‘I see you changed into your jodhpurs when you checked on Prancer after lunch. I hope it’s bikes you’re riding with James, not Fanny and Prancer. I don’t like them being out in this. He’s an old boy, remember.’

  Bridie sighed. Why was everyone obsessed with Prancer’s age?

  Helen Jones, the housekeeper, came in from the old butler’s parlour, which had been renovated to provide a nice apartment for her after her husband’s death. Bridie left the scullery and settled on her stool again.

  ‘I have lists,’ Helen announced, and waited, with a grin on her face. Ver and Evie groaned, and everyone joined in as James skidded down the corridor from the green baize door end, whistling tunelessly.

  ‘Why on earth can’t the dratted boy whistle in tune?’ his mother shouted, so he could hear.

  He entered. ‘Pearls before swine,’ he sighed, running his hand through his blonde hair, his blue eyes downcast. ‘I lay my whistling at your feet, and it is, I repeat, pearls before swine, Mother dear; and why are you sitting there with a face like a wet weekend, Bridie Brampton? It’s your afternoon off and we have bikes to ride, places to go, people to see.’

  She laughed, happy now whenever she saw him, because he had shaken his head when she had asked him about his plans for Spain at Christmas, and said, ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t believe everything I say, you silly beggar.’

  Her mam waved them away. ‘Off you go, don’t skid, don’t fall, don’t get cold, don’t . . .’

  Bridie grabbed her coat, hat and scarf off the hooks in the boot hall and followed James up the steps to the garage yard. Her Aunt Ver called, ‘Where are you cycling?’ but neither of them answered.

  They hurried along the yew hedge path, slipping in the inch or two of snow from time to time. They were able to run through the silver birches where, in the spring, primroses would create a carpet. The wind whistled through the branches; snow lay all around, crisp but not even, because it had drifted up against the trunks. Snow also lay on the north face of the thatch roof of the bothy, where their bikes were kept, but was sliding to the ground on the south side. Did that mean it was thawing? Well, Bridie thought, funny sort of thaw, as the wind cut her like a knife.

  James heaved out his bike from amongst the others and called, ‘The roads will have been cleared of snow by the traffic, and Young Stan’s been along with sand and salt anyway, along the top end. Come on, we’ll be too late to hear what’s happening. We can heckle the communists and support the socialists. Surely the pitmen know they’ve got a fair deal?’

  They cycled, head down, into the freezing wind, heading for the open air meeting at Old Bert’s Field, the one which usually held the Miners’ Gala and fête. Today, though, it was host to a miners’ strike meeting. The pitmen would hear their union reps talking for and against strike action. Bridie supposed their reasoning for an outdoor meeting was that they might get too many men to fit in the back hall of the Miners’ Club, but would many come out in this? James shouted back to her, as he powered ahead, ‘We’re late, they’ll have been at it a while already.’

  ‘Wonder if the Hawton fascists will be there?’

  ‘If we’ve heard about it, so have they,’ he panted.

  What she meant was, will Tim be there? He had called in on Uncle Jack and Auntie Grace for a moment at Christmas, but had then rushed to Germany for a few days, and would be off there again at any minute, her mam had told her this morning.

  All was calm as they arrived, but only just, to judge from the heckling. They left their bikes where they fell, just to the left of the field entrance, their wheels spinning, and ran, slipping and sliding towards the gathering of pitmen. Jeb, the well-respected moderate union rep at Auld Maud, was speaking on a temporary platform made up of wooden crates. They listened as he appealed for common sense, not agitation, which could only harm the Easton and Hawton mines and therefore the pitmen.

  ‘Aye, Lea End still has its problems, but their seams are not as good as ours, though Jack and Mart are working with the manager there. They’re trying to see if some of the flooded seams can be pumped out. Remember that our owner, Auberon Brampton, has listened to us; he is also talking to the Lea End owner. You fought alongside Auberon, Jack and Mart, or your fathers did. You trust them, so let’s leave them to it. Aye, it takes time, but anything else will destroy what we’ve built.’

  The cheers were louder than the booing as Jeb continued, his voice rising and falling. The pitmen stood with their mufflers up round their ears, their caps pulled down, their breath billowing like steam, only to be swept away by the bitter east wind. The sky was iron-grey. Two birds flew over, Bridie saw. By, she bet they were cold. In the background, as always, was the seething slag heap, the winding gear, the smell of sulphur.

  Several men beside her stamped and clapped their hands together to keep warm; others were squinting above their Woodbines, murmuring to one another. James whispered, ‘I bet they’d rather be back in the club, downing a pint.’

  She grinned. James weaved his way towards the front, with Bridie in his wake, but increasingly the gap between them grew as the pitmen she passed caught her arm, asking her how she was, and what about her mam, and da? Telling her how much Tom Welsh had been helped by Prancer, how Jack and Gracie’s Stunted Tree convalescent and retirement houses were essential, how the children’s Christmas party at Easterleigh Hall had been appreciated, how cold it was, how she must keep her head down, there were some daft buggers expected today.

  At last she caught up with James, who had stopped near the front, to the right. So
me way in front of them, three men wearing red mufflers were shouting and baying at Jeb. One shook his head and spat.

  ‘They’re like a load of kids. Are they the commies?’ Bridie asked.

  James shrugged, but a pitman near them called, ‘Why d’you think they’re wearing red, man? Course they’re bleedin’ Reds.’

  Jeb was leaving the stage. He tried to shake hands with Fred, the communist rep from Lea End, who took his place. Fred brushed him aside. The commies near them cheered. Fred stood there with his hands on his hips. He was also wearing a red scarf. ‘Bosses,’ he bawled. ‘You ’eard him. Bosses, your old rep said. He needs to step down, ’e do. We still have bosses, when we should be the ones owning the bloody pits.’

  There was a cheering from the three men, and from a few others dotted about the place. Now there was a press of men moving forward.

  ‘Get him off,’ a pitman near Bridie shouted, shaking his fist.

  ‘Let him speak,’ the pitman next to him bawled, throwing his stub to the ground. ‘Bloody bosses.’

  James muttered in her ear, ‘I don’t recognise those men over there, do you? With the mufflers?’ He was pointing to a couple in the centre, and suddenly there were more men dragging red scarves from their pockets, strangers in the main. ‘Have a look over there.’ He nodded towards a couple of miners who yelled, ‘You tell, ’em, Fred.’

  Fred was shouting, gesticulating, just like the fascists. Why did people have to be so extreme? Did they just like the sound of their own voices? She said, ‘Do they all wear scarves?’

  A pitman in front turned round. ‘Aye, or else they’d forget who they were, Bridie lass. How’s your mam?’

  A man behind them laughed, cupped his hands and bellowed, ‘You’re keeping us warm with your hot air, Freddy. Bet it’s a mite warmer here than Moscow. Have a cosy chat with Stalin, did ye, on your last trip, man?’

  Fred retaliated, ‘There you are, then, lads. Listen to Andy over yonder, chatting to the owner’s lass.’ He was pointing now. ‘He’s a lapdog, a donkey led up garden path by a wee bairn.’