The Child from the Ash Pits

by Chrissie Walsh

  Cally smiled a smug little smile. He’d stayed in the house on the night she’d been born; her mam had told her how he’d paced up and down smoking cigarettes, waiting for her, Cally, to arrive. He must have wanted me more than he wants this baby, she thought. It gave her a warm feeling inside and she ran upstairs to bed, huddling under the covers to make it last.

  They called the new baby Daisy.

  *

  Cally deliberately rattled the dishes in the sink, just to annoy Annie.

  ‘Stop that clattering, and when you’ve finished them pots you can tidy up.’

  Cally’s lips curved impishly as she thought of another ploy to irritate Annie. ‘When I’m a bridesmaid at Harriet’s wedding—’ She got no further.

  ‘Shut it!’ screeched Annie, ‘Don’t mention that trollop’s name again, and don’t keep on about that blasted wedding cos you’re not going.’

  Cally, her back to Annie, smirked. She’d heard that a hundred times but she knew that, in the end, Harriet would come to her rescue.

  Annie wheeled the pram with Daisy in it into the yard then popped her head back into the kitchen. ‘I’m off to Gertie’s,’ she said.

  Cally blinked her surprise. Usually, when Annie ventured out she locked Cally outside until she came back. Now, to her amazement, she was leaving her in the house, alone.

  After Annie had left, Cally sped through the chores then sat for a while wondering what to do. She’d never had the house to herself before; it felt strange and exciting.

  Suddenly, she knew what she would do, surprised not to have thought of it sooner. A warm shiver of anticipation tingled her spine as she mounted the stairs.

  On the landing she dithered outside George and Annie’s bedroom door. She hadn’t been in this room since her mam died, afraid to arouse sad memories, and nervous of trespassing in what was now Annie’s domain.

  Cally opened the door and stepped inside, tears pricking her eyes as she breathed in the faint scent of lavender; her mam’s special smell. She could almost feel her mam’s presence as, down on her knees, she rooted in the bottom of the wardrobe; the box was still there, exactly where her mam had always kept it. Cally lifted it, a few quick, nervous steps taking her out of the bedroom, across the landing and into her own room. She set the box on the bed then sat beside it.

  Made from some cheap foreign wood embellished with brass corners, this was Ada’s memories box, filled in the flush of happiness in the early years of her marriage to George. ‘It’ll be yours one day, Cally; you can keep your own special memories with mine,’ she had said. Cally gazed fondly at it, wondering what treasures she could store in the box; she didn’t own any special trinkets. Apart from books Ada had bought and read to her, books that Cally treasured all the more now Mam was no longer there to share them with her, she had no precious possessions.

  Sorely tempted to open the box and relive Ada’s memories but nervous of Annie’s impending return she got down on her knees, hiding the box behind the books that had been shoved under the bed when Annie first came to share her room. Annie had since moved her clutter into the room she now shared with George but, the second bed still taking up too much space, the books stayed where they were.

  Sure in the knowledge that Annie was too lazy to sweep under the bed, Cally sat back on her heels taking comfort in knowing that these special treasures were safely out of Annie’s reach and that she could handle them whenever she liked.

  Later that night, alone in her bedroom with the contents of the box spread out on the counterpane, Cally relived Ada’s stories: the wedding corsage pinned to her dress the day she married George, the lock of dark hair that was Cally’s first curl, the brooch that was a present from George and the gold locket that had been her grandmother’s, the same grandmother who had owned the glittering Victorian glass lustres that sat either end of the dresser in the parlour, and the vase that Annie had deliberately smashed.

  That night, and for many nights after, the handling of each precious item brought Cally a secret happiness, and for the first time since her mother’s death she no longer felt lost and alone. It was as though Ada was there with her, talking in that gentle way of hers, making Cally smile as she recalled the things Mam used to say.

  Ferny fronds from fairy bowers, Ada had said on the day Cally gave her a bunch of grasses picked on the wasteland. Mam had a lovely way with words. Funny too. Like the time she left the bread dough to rise in front of the fire for too long. Quick Cally, she had called, if we don’t get that dough in the oven it’ll push its way out into the yard and up School Road. Cally had laughed then and the memory still made her smile. Even when Mam was being serious she had a grand way of saying things: life is what you make it; you can do anything if you try; willows bend but they don’t break. One time she had advised Cally to ‘fight her own corner.’ When Cally asked what it meant, Ada explained, ‘stand up for yourself.’ Cally decided to heed Ada’s advice.

  However, there was always a price to pay.

  *

  ‘And think on, you’d better come straight home.’ The words sounding like a threat, Cally put on her coat and lifted her schoolbooks. Annie said this every morning but Cally never bothered to answer; she just walked out. And on that day, and most other days, when school finished Cally linked arms with her best friend, Marie Gilmore, and walked down School Road, straight past the entrance to Jackson’s Yard and into Green Lane. She was ‘fighting her own corner’ and ‘like the willows’ she wasn’t going to break.

  ‘You’re ever so brave,’ said Marie, as they approached the Gilmore’s cottage. ‘Aren’t you scared of what Annie’ll do when you get home?’

  Cally shrugged. ‘She can hit me all she likes. I don’t care any more.’ Marie flinched. Annie really was a wicked stepmother.

  ‘My mam’s baking today,’ said Marie, as they turned in at the gate. Cally’s mouth watered at the thought of Sarah Gilmore’s iced buns; Annie never baked.

  ‘Will we dress up again?’ asked Cally. She loved parading up and down Marie’s bedroom wearing the clothes Grandma Gilmore had kept from her days in the Music Halls; feathered hats, silk shawls and frilly dresses. Marie had been named after Grandma Gilmore’s favourite entertainer, Marie Lloyd; Cally liked that.

  ‘Do you think your Grandma will let me wear the purple feather thing?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Marie, with the certainty of a much-loved only child.

  Later, Cally walked home to Jackson’s Yard, the taste of icing sugar on her lips and in her head the song Grandma Gilmore had sung about an old man and a van that had lots of dilly-dally words in it. She was humming the tune as she walked under the arch.

  She smelled the smoke before she saw the fire.

  In the middle of the yard, opposite the back door to number eleven, hungry flames licked and flared. The neighbouring women, Lizzie amongst them, stood watching the blaze. Curious, Cally hurried towards it.

  Her eyes widened and she frantically grabbed a wodge of charred paper and card, screaming and dropping it instantly as heat seared her fingers.

  Lizzie yanked her away. ‘Leave ’em lass, leave ’em, there’s nowt you can do to save ’em.’ She pulled Cally against the front of her apron. ‘Don’t cry, love. She’s not worth it.’

  ‘But they’re my books!’

  Cally watched the rapidly disintegrating pages turn to grey ash. ‘Why, Lizzie, why did she do it?’ Cally already knew the answer. She had annoyed Annie once too often.

  ‘Cos she’s barmy, if you ask me,’ said Lizzie. ‘A bloody good hidin’ wouldn’t go amiss.’ She looked from Cally to the neighbouring women. ‘The spiteful bugger knows t’bairn loves her books.’

  Cally broke free of Lizzie’s comforting arm and hurtled into Annie’s kitchen where Annie sat reading one of her many copies of the Red Letter, her favourite magazine.

  Cally defiantly planted herself directly in front of Annie. ‘You wicked, rotten bugger. You burned my books,’ she screeched.

  Annie id
ly turned a page. ‘Oh dear, have I upset the little bridesmaid?’ she said, her tone mockingly sympathetic. She stood, slowly rolling the magazine into a tight tube. ‘Good!’ she snapped, her sarcasm spent, ‘because I’ve had just about enough of you and your grand notions: all that traipsing off to the Gilmores and the Jessops, that Harriet filling your head with nonsense. Well, maybe now you’ll think twice before skedaddling off with your fine friends or burying your head in a book when you should be helping me.’ She lashed Cally’s face with the magazine. ‘And don’t you dare to raise your voice or swear at me ever again.’

  Cally jumped back, panic rising. She’d hidden the treasure box behind the books under her bed. Annie had taken the books and burned them. Had she also taken the box?

  Cally dashed upstairs and dived under the bed, dust and fluff tickling her nose. In the darkened space her fingers found the box. The fluffballs danced as, dizzy with relief, she let pent up breath whoosh from her lungs.

  *

  Cally grieved the loss of her books, and the longer she grieved the more she plotted to redress the situation. Common sense told her she couldn’t physically punish Annie, but there had to be some way to hurt Annie like Annie hurt her; she had to even the score.

  Two days later, a pile of Red Letter magazines burned brightly behind the ash pits in Jackson’s Yard.

  Cally didn’t tell Marie about the burnt books – or the magazines; she was too ashamed. How could Marie, who lived in a house full of love, understand what it was like to live with someone like Annie?

  6

  In September, once Cally was back at school after the summer holidays, the weather turned unexpectedly foul and bitingly cold. Howling winds stripped the last burnished leaves from the trees, days of torrential rain turning them to mulch. All day it had battered against the classroom windows and was still pouring down when Cally hurried down the steep incline of School Road to Jackson’s Yard.

  Cally was worried. If the weather were like this on Saturday, it would ruin Harriet’s wedding day. She had spent the day, in between lessons, daydreaming about her bridesmaid dress and wondering what it and Harriet’s dress would be like, and when she wasn’t doing that, having never before taken part in anything so grand, she worried about doing the right thing on the day. She also thought about the things she must do in the five days before Saturday; come straight home from school, mind Daisy, do the chores without complaining, don’t give Annie any cheek, in fact, do anything to keep her sweet. At all costs, she mustn’t provoke Annie into preventing her attending the wedding.

  ‘Will I make the tea whilst you have a sit down, Annie?’ Cally said cheerfully, the minute she entered the kitchen at number eleven.

  For the rest of the evening, Cally performed every chore willingly. When George went off to his meeting she went up to bed, taking little Daisy with her and leaving Annie in peace.

  *

  The air in the large back room at the Calthorpe Miners’ Welfare Institute was thick with the smell of male sweat and tobacco smoke. The miners employed at Calthorpe Colliery sat uneasily on small, hard chairs, each one listening intently to the Union man. George sat at the end of a row, his face sour.

  ‘If you strike now, you’re on your own,’ the Union man said, his tone indicating disbelief at their crass foolishness. ‘Think back to 1921: we brought pithead winding gear in every mine in the country to a standstill and we still didn’t win.’

  ‘Aye, three bloody months out o’ work and what good did it do?’ warned an elderly miner. ‘Then there were eight million on us once t’transport workers and t’railwaymen joined us, and t’Government still didn’t listen. The buggers betrayed us. We wouldn’t be in this position if they’d nationalised t’pits as we asked ’em to do instead of handing ’em back to private owners.’

  ‘He’s right,’ the Union man said, ‘you’ll win nothing without support from other pits.’

  ‘You’d think we were askin’ for t’bloody moon,’ growled George, irritated by the defeatist attitude of the speakers, ‘all we’re asking for is safer workin’ conditions. Calthorpe Pit’s a bloody disaster.’ His damning words opened a floodgate.

  ‘Aye, t’pumps are buggered an’ t’seams full o’ bloody water.’

  ‘There aren’t enough props to shore t’roof up.’

  ‘We’re toilin’ in fear of us lives every bloody shift, an’ the buggers still refuse to make repairs.’

  ‘They sit on their arses stuffin’ their pockets wi’ money that by rights should be in our wage packets.’

  The Union man thumped the table, calling the meeting to order. ‘I’ll approach the owners again with your demands,’ he said, pompously. ‘I’ll stress the need for safety and let them know we’ll withdraw labour if they do nothing.’ He eyed the miners authoritatively. ‘For now, I advise you to bide your time.’

  *

  To Cally’s disappointment, it rained all day Tuesday and Wednesday. On Thursday morning, she was wakened by torrential rain rattling against the windowpanes and battering the slates on the roof. Cally thought, Harriet comes home today to get ready for the wedding, and it’s still pouring down. In school, she thought of little else.

  At two o’clock that afternoon, George stepped inside the cage that would transport him to the pit bottom. Pressed against the bodies of his fellow colliers he breathed in the stale smell of sweat and coal dust. The cage plummeted down the shaft, the colliers disgorging then hurrying along the road leading to the coal seam and stalls, the enclosed areas worked by two or three miners. George ducked into his stall, cursing as his helmet scraped the roof. Bent low, he scrabbled into the narrow, waterlogged space that he would occupy for the next eight tedious hours.

  He stashed his lamp and snap tin on a dry ledge then stripped to his waist, his mottey dangling against his bare chest. A metal disc with his specific number on it, he’d place it on the tub of coal he hewed that shift so the check-weigh-man could calculate his earnings. He buckled his kneepads, sourly eyeing the shallow flow of water in which he would stand, kneel or lie to hew coal. Then he grasped his pick and sloshed into the mire.

  ‘I see t’bloody pumps aren’t workin’ to full power again. I’m fair scundered workin’ in all this water.’

  ‘It’s worse than yesterday,’ Jimmy Stott observed, paddling towards him, pick in hand. ‘The buggers told us they’d been fixed.’ He spat savagely, the thick globule of mucous plopping into the water at his feet.

  George hunkered down. ‘Bloody pit owners, they’re all lying, thieving bastards.’ He raised his pick. Jimmy did likewise, any further conversation impossible as they attacked the rich, black seam, their picks biting out huge lumps of coal. It fell at their feet, a third man shovelling it up and tossing it into the tubs they would fill before the shift was over.

  ‘What I’d like to know is where’s all this water comin’ from?’ gasped George, wiping his chest on a rag from his trouser pocket, his thoughts as black as the coal he hewed.

  What a bloody way to earn a livin’. An’ when I’m not down here rippin’ me guts out, life up top’s no bloody better. I fought a soddin’ war, for God knows what? I lost a good wife an’ married a shrew, an’ now there’s no end o’ trouble; life’s a bugger, dying’s dead easy.

  This last thought brought Ada to mind; she hadn’t died easy, and her death had sentenced him and Cally to a life of misery. He sloshed further along the coal seam, noticing that the water was now almost to his knees.

  *

  When lessons ended, Cally lingered in the classroom to sharpen pencils and tidy the bookshelf. Rain lashed against the windows, the sound magnified in the all but empty room.

  ‘Do you think it will stop raining before Saturday, Mrs Greenwood?’

  Isabel Greenwood looked up from the book she was marking and said, ‘I hope so. Why do you ask?’

  ‘My mam’s friend gets married on Saturday. I’m one of the bridesmaids.’

  ‘How lovely. That’s a very important task. I’m s
ure you’ll look beautiful in your bridesmaid’s dress.’ As the headmaster’s wife, Isabel made it her business to learn something about each pupil’s background. Now, gazing at the small, dark head bent over an open book, for Cally always read as she tidied, Isabel felt a sudden surge of grief for this motherless child. It was bad enough losing your mother at such a tender age, but living with a feckless, surly father and a stepmother who, rumour had it, was decidedly unstable – Cally had told her about the burned books – made it even worse.

  Isabel let Cally read a while longer then said, ‘Hurry along home now,’ adding with a twinkling smile, ‘and don’t forget to include the bride in your prayers.’

  Pray for Harriet? Sometimes teachers said the strangest, daftest things, thought Cally as she ran across the schoolyard, her coat collar turned up against the driving rain.

  She was halfway down the steep incline of School Road when the pithead klaxon blared, its mournful wail persistent. Cally’s footsteps faltered; why was the hooter blowing? It wasn’t the beginning or end of a shift. As she listened to the insistent boom, the doors of houses on either side of School Road opened, housewives poking their heads out into the downpour. Anxious faces looked from one to the other, their eyes asking the same question. Then they voiced their thoughts.

  ‘Summat’s wrong up at t’pit!’

  ‘There must have been an accident!’

  The women left their houses, shawls and coats pulled over their heads to shield them from the lashing rain.

  ‘Is your Tommy on this shift, my Sam is?’

  The cry hung in the air before it was lost in a gabble of shared emotions. These women lived in fear and dread of an accident underground. Above the din a voice screeched, ‘All my three lads are down!’

  Cally stood rooted to the spot. So was her dad.

  The women hurried to the pithead, Cally with them. As they reached the colliery gates they heard the news. ‘The mine’s flooded! There’s men trapped below.’