A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel

by Margaret Graham

  A pitman from way behind yelled, ‘Or a donkey led by bigger bloody donkeys by the names of Jack Forbes and Martin Dore.’

  Fred took up the thread, ‘Not donkeys, but a pair of bloody dachshunds sitting in the lap of bloody Auberon Brampton, and what a name that is to play with.’

  Bridie found her voice now, ‘That’s not fair. You know that’s not fair, Fred Benton. We’ve a grand safety record, good pay . . .’ But she was only one voice amongst many, so she pushed forward, wanting to get close, and tell him to his face.

  James pulled her back. ‘Stay with me, don’t you dare go off.’

  All around her people were arguing, as Fred ploughed on. The crowd was shifting, lurching this way and that. Bridie was knocked to one side. James grabbed her, holding her to him, shouting against the furore, ‘Stay with me. Damn it, Bridie. I shouldn’t have brought you down this far.’ He was shouting to be heard.

  She shouted back, ‘You didn’t bring me, I came by myself, you daft beggar.’

  The stewards were working their way through the crowd, calming it down. It grew quieter, and Fred continued, ‘Oh, yes, shake your fists at us, but when the workers take over you’ll be scampering along on our coat-tails, like pigs at a trough.’

  ‘Who’re you calling a pig?’ a man beside her roared. It was Anthony Selwood from Hawton, one of Uncle Mart’s pitmen, who had dressed as Father Christmas at the Easterleigh Hall party for the bairns. The yelling and shoving all around grew worse, and suddenly there was a push towards the stage. One steward fell, and was trampled. The others were swept along.

  James’ grip tightened. ‘We’re leaving.’

  They tried to force their way back, but the press of people was too great. James yelled, ‘We’ll get to the side.’ He took her hand, weaving his way through, but then there was another push, which became a surge, and on top of this the shouting grew louder, and then the yelling of men in pain, and men enraged. A group of men were carving their way across the front of the stage, heading for a group of Reds, while others, wearing red scarves, were barging the surge.

  Someone yelled, ‘It’s the fascists.’

  The pitmen near James and Bridie spun round. One grabbed James’ arm. ‘Follow us, there’s going to be heads bloodied this afternoon, man. We need to get her out.’

  ‘Leave the buggers to it, they can bash one another’s heads in,’ another yelled. ‘Waste of bloody time, anyway, listening to Fred’s rubbish.’

  The pitmen were carving a path of their own, and James and Bridie tucked in behind, but then there was a surge from the left, and behind, and now more yelling, and the fascists were here, a mob of them, wielding their fists, knuckledusters and clubs, clashing with the communists and anyone else in their way. Bridie fell, James was knocked down. A pitman stepped on Bridie’s hand, his boots gouging the skin; her blood seeped into the scuffed snow. He pushed on past, dragging his young son. Behind them she saw a Blackshirt punching a pitman, who was giving as good as he got.

  She scrambled to her feet and heard James shouting, ‘Bridie? Bridie, where the hell are you?’

  She was buffeted on all sides. ‘Here,’ she almost screamed, her hand up high, though how would he see it in all of this? But he did, and now she saw him ducking and diving, and side-stepping his way back; he was charged then, by a fist-wielding pitman wearing a red muffler. James went down.

  A fascist powered into the communist and they fought, stepping on James, kicking him out of the way. Bridie screamed as a boot just missed his skull, but caught his nose. It began to bleed. It was his blood on the snowy ground now. Another kick thudded into his legs.

  Bridie forced her way through the heaving bodies. She powered into the back of the fascist before he could kick James again. He slipped and fell. The communist turned, barrelling into another brawl, leaving James on his knees, shaking his head; his blood sprayed through the air. She pulled at his arm. ‘James, come on, get up.’

  The fascist was rising, and then he grinned at someone. A punch caught her on the ribs. She felt a sickening crunch, and fell, as James at last got to his feet. Bridie lay, winded, the pain in her ribs like nothing she’d known. She looked up as the two Blackshirts nodded at one another, their faces alight with excitement. One was Tim. It was he who had punched her.

  James flung himself at him. ‘You hit her, Tim. You bastard, have you gone mad? And you shouldn’t wear a uniform. It’s outlawed. Outlawed, do you hear?’ He was punching ‘Outlawed. Outlawed.’ The other fascist hauled him off, throwing him down next to Bridie.

  Bridie saw the excitement disappear from Tim’s face and confusion take its place, as she turned on her front and got to her knees, feeling as though she would vomit. Someone else ran past, knocking her flat again. She gasped at the pain of the jolt. She rose yet again, and now she was lifted to her feet and steadied by Tim, who gripped her face between his hands. ‘I didn’t know it was you, Bridie,’ he said.

  She whispered, ‘But you knew it was someone. You shouldn’t wear your uniform in a public place. It’s been forbidden after your Cable Street march.’ She knew she was repeating James, but it kept going round her head and it kept her from crying. ‘You shouldn’t wear it. Do you hear me? You shouldn’t damn well wear it. And I don’t know who you are, any more.’

  She tore from him, and now James was on his feet, and together they pushed through the crowd. Behind them they heard Tim call, ‘Damn you, James, you shouldn’t have brought her. She’s just a bairn, for God’s sake.’

  They cycled home. The wind was at their back. It numbed the pain of her ribs, and seemed to have stopped James’ nosebleed.

  When they reached the crossroads where she would turn right for Home Farm, and he left for Easterleigh Hall, James said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘For what, bonny lad? He was the one in the wrong, and I’d have gone on my own if you’d said no. He knows that, he’s trying to squirm out of it.’

  ‘I’ll cycle you back.’ He wouldn’t listen when she said no.

  He cycled her across the yard to the back door. She said, ‘He’s a stranger.’

  James nodded, but said nothing.

  He cycled away, knowing that he had to take a stand after all. Democracies had to be supported, and protected. There was time here for the country to come to its senses, but for poor bloody Spain it was running out. Franco and the fascists were gaining victories. But he couldn’t go now and let Uncle Aub down. So he’d have to finish at Home Farm first, and then he’d be off. But he had to keep his mouth shut, or Bridie would come too, as she had said, and that couldn’t happen. She must be safe.

  Chapter Eleven

  That same evening Tim arrived at Easton Miners’ Club, though he no longer wore his uniform. He switched off his motorcycle engine and waited for a moment, feeling the pain of his knuckles, shocked at himself, remembering the thud as he punched Bridie. How could he not know it was her? How? Because he never expected them to be so stupid, and she’d been wearing those daft jodhpurs, so how was he supposed to know it was a girl?

  He took off his leather gloves and stuffed them in the leather jacket Millie had given him at Christmas. He’d talk to Bridie, explain that it was a mistake, that she had to understand it was a battle bigger than them all. It was a fight against mayhem. He stared at the club. Tonight of all nights he didn’t want to be here, talking to his da, for what if he’d heard about the fracas? But he needed that forged letter for Heine and his mother. His da would help. He always did.

  He dismounted and walked inside, into the noise, the smoke, the smell of beer. He eased past groups of standing pitmen who huddled together, nursing beers and bruises. He pulled his cap further down. His da was with Mart at a small table. Mart looked up, surprised. He said something to Jack, nodded to Tim, and rose. ‘I’ll get you in a beer, man.’ There were beer rings on the scarred table.

  His da nodded. ‘You had a good afternoon, I hear, son.’

  Tim’s heart sank. He said, ‘Can’t have Fr
ed having it all his own way, and being bloody rude about you.’

  Jack nodded, watching his son closely. ‘He won’t get his own way, trust me. I’ve got it sorted, and all will be well.’

  They both laughed at Grandma Susan’s mantra. Did his da guess that it had nothing to do with Fred’s insults and everything to do with implementing fascism? For a moment he was shocked, because he’d never actually put his mangled thoughts into order before. Mart reappeared, leaving a pint on the table for Tim, telling them he was going to see a man about a dog. Jack sipped his beer.

  Tim looked at his. They sat, a heavy silence between them. Jack pushed his half-full glass away at last, leaned forward and said, ‘You seem vexed, son. How can I help?’

  Tim took a deep breath. It was what he’d been waiting for. ‘It’s Mother,’ he said. ‘She’s glad you and Mam are married, but unhappy because she and Heine can’t yet, because she needs . . .’ He stopped, and then started again. ‘Well, you see . . . I don’t know why everyone seems to hate her so much, just for running off with a German. He’s a good man, Da. Successful, patriotic, and he had the same war as you, even to the point of being a prisoner, so you should understand. You love Gracie, after all.’

  Jack’s gaze was steady on his son. ‘The first thing is that no-one hates her, as far as I know. The past is the past, and we’ve all moved on. Your mam has a new life, and you’re helping her to live it, which is grand. So . . . ?’

  Tim felt irritation sweep through him. ‘It’s so easy for you; you have all this, and a family. She only has me.’

  Jack looked puzzled. ‘Well, you’ve just said she has Heine, and surely they’ll have friends. I don’t understand what you need, son?’

  Tim took a gulp of his beer. It was warm. Heine drank his cold. ‘That’s just it, Da. She sort of has Heine, but there are rules now, she says. Rules on who can marry who, and . . .’

  Jack looked stunned. ‘But she’s not a Jew, is she? I know her Aunt Nellie sent out her birth certificate. Now, if she is, that is a problem, and it damn well shouldn’t be.’

  Tim shouted, ‘No, it’s not that, just listen.’

  People fell silent around them. Jack immediately laughed, and everyone relaxed. He was a clever man, thought Tim, in the way he knew just how to handle, or defuse, every situation. Tim said quietly, ‘Of course she’s not a Jew. Heine wouldn’t touch her with a barge pole if she were. No, it’s just . . .’ He groped for words. Around him talk and laughter flowed. ‘Oh, forget it.’

  He picked up his pint and downed almost half, gulp after gulp, while his da watched. ‘Put your pint down, son, and listen. Your mam was always, how can I put this? She wanted things she didn’t have – and why not, in a way? Her da was killed in the pit. She and her mam lived with Aunt Nellie in Hawton, and there wasn’t room, not really. You’ve just said she has Heine, and will share his success. This will calm her. Most of all she has you.’ His da’s voice became harsh. ‘What more could she want, for God’s sake? Wherever she goes there’s . . .’

  Tim felt a shaft of fury take over: why the hell was everyone, his mother included, making his life so bloody difficult? He slammed his hand down on the table. His grazed knuckles were plain to see. ‘There’s what? Listen to you, Da. You married her, for heaven’s sake, just to fill the gap left by Timmie, just as she said. Well, I’m not Timmie, I’m hers and Roger’s. You lot took everything from her—’

  ‘Jack, we need to talk.’ It was Jeb, the union rep, rushing up, bringing the cold with him. ‘I can’t hold Fred back, he’s stirring up a hornets’ nest.’

  Jack waved him away. ‘Give me a minute, Jeb. We’ll need Mart in on this, and I reckon he’s in with the darts team. We’ve a plan to sort it once and for all.’ Jeb nodded, and headed for the other room.

  Jack swung round to Tim. ‘You listen to me, lad. You said “you lot”. We’re not a “lot”, we’re your family, just as much as Roger or Millie. You filled no gap, son. You’re Tim, and your mam chose that name, to honour Timmie, and we were grateful.’

  Tim stood up, shoving the table towards his da. For God’s sake – parents, letters, bloody kids where they shouldn’t be . . . He could feel his fist driving into Bridie’s ribs. He’d enjoyed it, but he hadn’t known it was Bridie. Or had he? That was the problem: had he?

  He stared at his beer juddering inside the glass.

  Jack said. ‘Never fear, lad. You had our love.’

  Had? Tim thought.

  He lifted his head, and stared at his da. Around him he heard the murmur of the pitmen. Had? What did he care? This wasn’t his world, it never had been; his da had seen to that, just like his mother had said. He was shuffled off to work in Newcastle as an engineer, when he could have sat his certificate and been in management here, as part of the family. But they weren’t his family. Oh Christ.

  His da still sat, looking up at him, shaking his head, as though to clear it.

  Tim leaned over him. ‘Had your love, eh? Just like it was for my mother, eh? As long as people do as you say, you’ll love ’em. As long as the miners behave, you’ll take care of them. If they step out of line, you’ll get yourselves together and sort ’em out like you’re about to do right now, together with Jeb and Mart?’

  Jack stood up then, coming round the table, forcing his son to step back. ‘What on earth . . . ?’

  ‘Like my mother, I suppose. You lot fitted her up by forging that letter about the silver theft. It was you, wasn’t it, just to spoil her new life? Well, be bloody glad, because you finally have. Without it she can’t marry Heine, the SS have rules. You go on and sort the miners, because I’m going out to my mother and step-father tomorrow and I wish you well with the whole damn mess, and when I get back, if I ever come back, don’t expect to see me. You and Mam are nothing to me, not any more.’

  Around them, the men had fallen silent. This time Jack didn’t laugh and make it alright. Instead he said quietly, ‘Listen to me, son.’

  Tim shook his head. ‘I’m not listening any more, just as you’re not. But hear this: I’m not your son, I’m not Mam’s son either. You’re so damned satisfied with yourselves and you’ll do exactly what suits you, and to hell with anyone else. I know how my mother felt now and it must have been a great big loneliness.’

  He turned away from his da, who had paled, his scars standing vivid and blue, and walked straight into Mart, who blocked his way. ‘You’re right out of order, you bloody little fascist. Apologise to your da, now.’

  Jack moved then, pulling Mart to one side. ‘Enough, man, he doesn’t mean it. He might think he does, but he doesn’t.’

  The miners made a path for Tim to walk through. There was utter silence. He reached the door. Jeb was there. He too blocked his way for just a moment. ‘You’re bang out of order, son. You’ll not come in here again until you’ve said, and meant, that you’re right sorry. He’s the best man out, your da is.’

  Tim shouldered the elderly man aside, wanting to smash his fist in his face. ‘Well, looking around, that’s not saying a lot, is it? And they’re not my parents, didn’t you hear? Not any more.’

  At his motorbike he dragged his gloves from his pocket. He swung his leg over the saddle and started the engine, looking towards the door. His da didn’t come. He waited. Still he didn’t come. He drove away and didn’t know why he was weeping.

  Bridie came in from feeding the chickens while it was still dark the following morning. Her mam had already left to supervise the breakfasts and lunch preparations at Easterleigh Hall. James had arrived at seven to head out with her father to ditch the top field and her father had cocked an eyebrow at James’ black eye and swollen nose, but believed James when it was explained away as a slip in the snow. Bridie had exchanged a smile with her cousin and answered his own cocked eyebrow. I’m fine, she had mouthed. Me too, he had replied. Both were lying.

  Her ribs hurt and were perhaps cracked, but she knew there was nothing to be done, except bear it. She put the empty feed bowls in the scull
ery cupboard, and passed through the kitchen to the hall. She heard her da in his study, and called, ‘What did you forget, Da?’ There was no answer. She entered. Tim was by the desk, his motorbike goggles on top of his head, his gloves stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket.

  ‘You, in someone’s study, again?’ She could barely look at him, feeling the crunch of his fist, seeing the light of enjoyment in his face.

  He said, ‘I didn’t know it was you.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Her throat was thick, but it had been ever since she had walked away from him yesterday.

  He was quite still, and so was she. He was pale, but so was she. He said, ‘I need something which might be in the safe. My mother thinks your mother might have it. If you never speak to me again, do this one thing for me, open the safe. It might contain something that will enable her to marry Heine. It’s too difficult to explain.’

  She still stood motionless. ‘Ask Mam.’

  ‘My mother thinks she won’t tell me, because she hates her.’

  ‘I don’t think my family hates anyone. You are the one with hate in your heart, which is something I don’t understand.’ She paused. ‘I don’t know the combination.’

  ‘Please find it for me.’ His face moved strangely, as though it was made of wood, and he looked anywhere but at her.

  She made a show of checking in the two drawers, bending carefully, leafing through the papers, forcing herself to ignore the pain. She looked inside an address book. The combination was there, as her father had once shown her, the four numbers broken up, under A, C, F and G. She said, ‘I can’t find it. Look if you like.’ She placed the address book on the table and stepped away from the drawer.

  Tim searched through it. Bridie held her breath. He moved to the drawer and searched. He straightened, still unable to meet her eyes. He headed towards the door, his shoulders slumped, and said, ‘Please, not a word, I beg you. I can’t explain it, I hardly understand myself, but it will make my mother happy if I find it. It is something I can do for her, after all the years of her being without me.’