Easterleigh Hall (15 page)

He snatched a look behind. The marra groups were with him, and others had stopped their work and were joining them, leaving the coal to the women. And there, behind Evie, was Simon. Well, he wouldn't be in the first wave, he'd see to that. He wasn't going to jeopardise anyone Evie loved, and no way could the lad go to work with a face like a bruiser. It was a shame, he was a canny fighter.

The sea-coalers from Lea End had spotted them and were fanning out, creating a jeering barrier between the parson and the oncoming Easton and Hawton pitmen. Jack knew they'd be drunk, they wouldn't be thinking clearly, they'd be easy. He headed down to the surf to flank them and get at Manton. His da would know to spearhead the charge on the right flank. He gestured to his own marra group. ‘To the left, the left, we need to break a way through near the surf, because he won't survive the waves, they're bloody giants.' He heard them behind him, heard Simon call to Evie, ‘Stay back, let us do this. You too, Timmie.'

Jack swung round. ‘Not you, Si, stay with Evie and Timmie, keep them back.' He nearly tripped, staggered, felt his knee twist, but righted himself. His group were with him, his father was pitching into the barrier higher up, arms swinging, the others on his heels roaring head down into the melee.

Jack used his fists as they tore into the lower section and had the parson in his sights. Martin closed up on his right, some others to his left. The Lea End mob were lifting Manton's legs now. They were just a yard or two from the surf. They dropped a leg and fumbled before grabbing it up again. He could hear their laughter, their shouts. Manton seemed lifeless, he wasn't struggling at all. Surely the bugger wasn't turning the other cheek? God in heaven, there was a time and place, the daft beggar.

Jack punched and kicked, grunting as a damn great stick broke across his shoulders. He felt more blows land as he forced his way through with Martin at his side, while Joe and Andy and the others exchanged blows of their own. The parson was being swung backward and forward, and again, and then once more as the bastards stood knee-deep in the surf, the waves breaking and crashing waist-high. As Jack reached them they threw the parson high into the air and into the waves. ‘Let your preaching help you now, you daft bugger, and stay away from us,' one of the men called, trying to throw Edward Manton's hat in after him, but the wind took it.

Jack barged through the group, using his shoulder and his fists, which were already bruised and swollen from last night's fight. How long could he go on doing this? He was through now and skirting the surf, leaving Martin and the others to beat the group back. He tore his jacket off, searching the waves. He grappled with the laces of his boots. Where was the daft bugger? Where?

Breathe deep, calm down, he insisted, trying to ease the knots, knowing that Martin would protect his back. Evie rushed through the surf. ‘Don't, Jack. It's not the beck. Don't.'

He must. What else could he do? He yelled at Simon, who was wading into the fight, ‘I said look after her, damn you, and where the hell's Timmie?'

His boots were off and he forced his way through the breaking waves, which snatched at him, slowing him. The cold took what was left of his breath and he caught his foot on some coal, and lurched forward. He tasted the salt, sinking beneath the oncoming waves, swallowing water, feeling the coal cutting into his feet as he struggled up, only to see a bigger wave roaring in, bowling him over again. He struggled to the surface, standing firm. The water was up to his waist.

He dived through the next wave, and the next, searching, out of his depth now because it was here that the beach shelved, making it a poor place for sea coal. The light was already fading and the current was taking him back to shore, and the cold was seizing up his limbs, so what was it doing to a namby-pamby like Manton? He snatched a look around. Nothing. He beat his way back out to sea, swimming hard, throwing himself upwards again and again, searching before breaking through the next wave.

He could see the fighting on the beach as the Lea End men were forced back towards the dunes, he could see Evie with Si at the edge of the surf holding back Miss Manton who was struggling and hitting out at a passing Lea End man. By, the Manton lass had courage. But where was Timmie? He flicked his hair out of his eyes, treading water. Where was the bloody parson? A wave hit him and dragged him down, sucking him to the depths, tumbling him in the water. He hadn't been ready and had no breath. On it went, tumbling him over and over, his lungs bursting, and then he felt a tug. Something changed, slowly he was being hauled out of the rip, but he still mustn't breathe or he would die, but he must take in breath because his chest was on fire.

The tugging went on, he kicked, helping, he was breaking through the surface coughing, choking and Timmie was grinning at him, holding him up by the armpits. ‘You know I swim better than you ever did,' he shouted. ‘You go left, I'll go right. Evie, Si, and Miss Manton are looking out for the parson. Keep an eye on them.'

As he stroked away Jack searched the sea yet again, checking with the shore, swimming off to the right, lifting and falling and diving through the waves, and then he saw something black further out. He swam towards it, ducking beneath a wave again. He saw an arm, lifting, then it fell, and yet another surge dragged at him. He kicked hard, swam out of it, stroking the moment he broke the surface.

He yelled after Timmie, who glanced back. Jack pointed, then stroked as though his life depended on it, but it wasn't his life, it was the daft beggar's who hadn't listened. How had he ever heard ‘the call'? He thought this again and again, maniacally laughing, then stopped. No. No. By, it was so cold.

Jack's arms were heavy, his legs too. His body was beyond numb. He forced himself on, rising to check on the position of Manton. There was no outstretched arm, but he could still see something black, lolling like a clump of seaweed. Timmie was alongside.

‘It's him,' he said, crawling stroke for stroke with Jack, both spitting with every turn of their heads. The sea seemed to be lifting and falling as though in the grip of a cauldron and the wind was howling. If they didn't get out soon they never would.

They were closing, they were there, but Manton was face down. Timmie dived and turned him, Jack grabbed the parson beneath the arms and dragged him. Together they struggled shorewards with Timmie sidestroking beside him, hauling for all he was worth. The waves continued to surge and boil, and now the rain came, stinging their faces. Timmie coughed but they were making headway because the tide was turning and the waves were with them, at last, but it was too late. He had to let go, had to sink, had to give up, he must, but then the waves were breaking on them and he felt sand beneath his feet, and they were in the shallows as Timmie took over.

Exhausted, Jack felt his body give up. He rolled on to his front and crawled towards safety, but he couldn't think because of the noise and the deadness of his body. Then Simon and Evie were in the sea beside him, hauling him towards safety, but he couldn't stand, damn it. He had no strength, no feeling, and was so cold he thought he'd never be warm again.

Evie was saying, ‘Come on, Jack. Help us, get those legs moving, bonny lad.' He tried, stumbled and stood, but only for a moment, for he had no bones, only jelly, only numbness. He fell to his knees, and the surf still crashed over and around him, and over his sister and the man she loved. They dragged him out of the water as Timmie and Martin dragged Manton.

His mam was there and threw her shawl over him as he lay scarcely able to breathe, and what air he sucked in barely reached his lungs, though he could hear it rasping. In and out. In and out.

Evie was rubbing him, his mother too, but all the time he searched for Timmie and Manton, and saw them higher up on the beach with Miss Manton and two pit wives rubbing and drying them both. His father and the Easton men were returning, leaving the Lea End gang fleeing. Da was helping Timmie and Martin move Manton on to his belly, while Si's da, Alec, took over from the women. Evie was crying, his mam was crying and stroking his hair. Miss Manton was crying. It was bloody bedlam.

He watched his da thumping Manton on the back. Was that what you did when someone had drowned? Was he dead? Was there any hope? Simon was running towards Manton, taking over from Da, whose nose was bleeding, and Alec's too. By, that must have been some fight. He knew his own head, nose and fists would be sore if he could feel them. Over by the dunes the Lea End group were turning around their carts and leaving. They should be reported, but you didn't report one of your own, for they were pitmen from Sidon Pit.

Evie and his mam were helping him to his feet and urging him away from the surf and the spray. ‘Come on, Jack, let's get you safe, the tide's coming in.' He was shivering so much that he couldn't speak and his legs didn't seem to belong to him.

It was then that his da turned and held up his arm, shouting. ‘We've got him back, the daft bugger. We've got him back.'

Miss Manton was on her knees, not praying but cradling her brother. Jack grinned inside but his face wouldn't move. Daft bugger, oh yes, he was. Timmie came across, hauling him up. ‘Thanks, Timmie,' Jack whispered. ‘You saved me.' He was slurring his words. ‘You led me,' Timmie said and then his legs sagged and they both fell back on to the beach.

The marras carried all three men to the dunes near their carts where there was some degree of shelter, and then they carted the coal to the wholesalers. Evie and the other women stripped Jack of his shirt, forcing his arms into his father's old spare shirt, which he always brought in case of accident. Then they helped him into his jacket while his da removed Jack's trousers, and changed them for his own. Alec did the same for Timmie. They wore the wet ones. Jack was barely conscious, but Manton was even less so. Alec had found several blankets and was wrapping them around the parson, whom he had stripped. ‘We must get the bugger to the infirmary,' Jack croaked.

Miss Manton came across then, bending over him. ‘How can I thank you, Mr Forbes?'

‘Keep your brother warm,' Jack murmured as his da arrived, looming over him.

Jack grinned. ‘I've been given your old shirt, man, so I'm not good enough for your better 'un, I suppose.'

His da grinned too, and gripped his shoulder. ‘You got that right, lad. I'm right proud of you both.'

Jack pulled his father close. ‘Let the bairn have a beer, for God's sake. He's a man now.'

Evie and Simon pedalled back, following the cart and the trap to the infirmary. They left Mr Manton there, but Jack wouldn't stay in after he'd been examined. ‘I need to work,' he said to Miss Manton. Timmie nodded. ‘I need to work too.' He smelt of beer. Jack grinned at his father. They'd be in the pit again tomorrow; sickness was a luxury they couldn't afford, especially with trouble looming. The grin faded. He hadn't done enough. They didn't have the house.

Night was falling and Evie and Simon set off for Easterleigh Hall, pedalling slower with legs that ached. Simon barely spoke, but Evie was tired too, and wet, and as cold as he was. She would take a hot brick up to bed, wrapped in sacking. In fact, she'd take two, maybe even three. Simon checked his watch in the light from the moon. ‘We'll be in time,' he said.

Evie nodded. ‘Thanks for your help, lad. Make sure you take hot bricks to bed.'

He said nothing for a while. Then, in a distant voice, he murmured, ‘You see what I mean. I was sent to stay with you and Timmie when I could have helped beat back the Lea End lot.'

Evie shook her head, a surge of irritation washing away her pride in her brothers. ‘It saved you turning up for work with a face looking as though it had been through a mincer. Jack will have worked out that you need to keep your job. We're not outsiders, we're just . . . well, we made a different choice, Simon.'

‘You mean my father made a choice. He wanted me out of the pit.'

She pedalled hard to keep up with him as they rode up the hill. ‘We each had a part to play. We saved a life.' He was being a daft beggar. He was cold and wet and he'd pick up soon.

She laughed suddenly. ‘Don't forget, we're a gang, and we stayed together, worked together. We got Jack back.' She freewheeled down the hill and in a moment he overtook her, laughing at last. ‘Heaviest gets to the bottom first.'

She braked steadily. ‘Then I'm way behind you.' His laugh rang loud and clear. Before they'd left the infirmary Miss Manton had said, ‘Evie, I think you might have forgotten the Suffragette meetings. Why don't I pick you up at the crossroads near Easterleigh Hall on your afternoon off next Wednesday? In fact, I'll be there every Wednesday and Sunday until you come. I owe your family everything, and you owe yourself – well, something of the utmost importance.'

EVIE WOKE DURING
that same Sunday night with a searing sore throat, aching limbs and thumping headache, but she and Millie were up at five thirty as normal. She'd only been here a couple of weeks but already the pattern of her days was set firm, as though there'd never been anything else. She eased her aching body down the back stairs into the kitchen, starting the furnace, then boiling the kettle while Millie leaded the grate and the scullery maids attacked the copper pans. It was becoming a daily occurrence that they were not completely finished the night before, but Mrs Moore had made no comment beyond, ‘There are only so many hours in a day.'

Tea was delivered to the upper servants, and Mrs Moore's gin bottle was only half empty. A good sign? Hopefully. Back in the kitchen, Evie left the servants' porridge to Millie and set the table with all that was needed for breakfast preparation, though it was too early to start to sauté the kidneys. She checked Mrs Moore's lunch menu for today. Parsnip soup removed by boiled turbot and lobster sauce, removed by forequarter of lamb, removed by apricot tartlets and rhubarb tart. She set the stockpot brewing, dragged on her shawl and told Millie she was going to the gardeners' store to collect the parsnips. Millie smiled as she stirred the porridge. ‘Say hello to Simon for me.'