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The sickness in her chest deepened as she looked over the heather-clad hillocks to the right of her and into the distance where lay the river and Jarrow, for it was up here that her da used to bring them on fine Sundays, and he would sit on the highest point and talk to them, always looking towards the river, broadening it for them from the silver thread, which was all they could see, to a vast water on which ships, filled up to the scuppers with coal, set their great sails and went with the wind to London. They followed them on their journeys and all the way back until, filled now with ballast, they would come into Shields and tip it on the foreshore.

One memorable Sunday her father had brought the scene to life for herself, John, Nancy, and Peter. It was the year before the children died. Setting off at six o'clock in the morning, they had walked all the way to Shields shore and had the most wonderful day of their lives.

Not only had they seen the town and the life of the river and watched great sailing ships sailing out into the North Sea, but, strangely, the pinnacle of the day for her had been when, on the return journey, their father had led them through Westoe village where the houses of the great were, dozens of them, and they had seen at least twenty beautiful coaches going in and out of drives or standing before glistening brass-adorned doors. It was on that night that the dream had first come to her and she'd seen her whole family living in the most beautiful house; it was low and white with thick walls and the sun was shining on it so brightly that it hurt her eyes to look at it. The dream had since come to her often, and it had never changed.

After a weary day, as sleep was overtaking her, she would often say to herself, "I hope I have it the night." But it didn't always come. She had told no one about her dream, not even her da, not because it was silly but because it was too precious to share, and she had the feeling that if she ever spoke of it she would never dream it again.

They were now going downhill and the road was so rough that Jimmy and William had to steady the coffins on the cart.

They passed through Benham and Brockdale, and people stared to see so many children at a funeral and their expression said it wasn't right.

Cissie knew what they were thinking but it didn't matter. Her da and ma were going to have a funeral with people at it, and who better than their own family. It it hadn't been such a long way to the cemetery she would have brought the lot of them.

They passed Rosier's pit just as a shift was coming out and the men, black with red-gapped mouths, stood still until they had passed; then they went through Rosier's village and the stench from the middens engulfed them like a cloud.

Fifteen minutes later they reached the cemetery gate and here they had to halt, for another funeral was going in and they all stood and stared at it in wonder. The coffin was in a glass box drawn by four black horses, and following it Cissie counted twelve coaches, and behind them almost a hundred people on foot. They had never seen such a spectacle.

Jimmy turned his dark, thin face towards her and gazed at her in silence, and she returned his look.

When the last of the long cortege had gone through the gates, the driver got down from the cart and led the horse forward, not up the main driveway but along a side path and to a distant corner of the cemetery, and there, waiting at the end of a long line of open graves, was Parson Hedley, with a single gravedigger standing beside him.

Parson Hedley watched the small procession come towards him and he too shook his head at the sight of the children.

But then he thought Joe would have wanted it this way and she, better than anyone, would know that. But still it wasn't right. He now went up to Cissie and touched her lightly on the arm and nodded at her twice but didn't speak before turning to Mr. Snell and saying, "I'm glad you managed it, John." And John Snell said piously, "Out of respect.

Parson. Out of respect." Then the driver of the cart and the gravedigger, with no ceremony whatever, pulled a coffin from the cart and placed it over two ropes. When they had taken up the ends they looked at Parson Hedley, and he, indicating to Cissie with a wave of his hand that she place the children round the grave, opened the Bible, and the service began.

Parson Hedley wasn't a good preacher. It was said that his sermons were the best "sleeping dose" one could have, but it was also said it was with works and not words that he carried out his Christian duties.

As they placed the second coffin on the first, Mary began to cry loudly and Cissie, reaching out, drew her tightly against her side, but all the while she stared down into the grave, and as she stared she wondered what was the matter with her. Was she going funny in the head? Because, instead of crying like Mary, she was wondering if her ma was lying on top of her da or the other way about, and in which coffin they had put the baby; likely with her mother, but then you never knew, not for sure. When Parson Hedley's voice droned "Ashes to ashes" she put her hand over her mouth because her mind was reciting the parody that her da used to say, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the Lord won't have you the devil must." What was the matter with her?

She had no feeling in her chest now, she felt numb all over. Was she going off her head?

When William sniffled and coughed, then made a choking sound as he drooped his head forward on to his chest, she put her free hand on his shoulder and gripped it tightly. Now Sarah started to cry, but her crying was quiet. Like her nature, everything was toned down.

When the gravedigger started to shovel the earth rapidly on to the coffins, the hollow sound of the lumps of clay hitting the wood reverberated against Cissie's temples and she had the terrifying desire to jump into the hole and throw the dirt out again.

"Come away. Come away." She allowed Parson Hedley to turn her from the grave. The children were tightly gathered around her now, even Jimmy, and Parson Hedley, putting his hand on one head after the other said, "Leave your sister for a moment. You go on with them, Jimmy"

--he nodded to the dry-eyed boy"--I want to talk to Cissie."

They stood aside and let her walk from their midst, but their eyes remained tight on her. Parson Hedley stopped at the end of the path and, bending forwards, said, "Now have you thought about what you are going to do, Cissie?"

She wagged her head several times before she spoke.

"Yes, Parson."

"You're going to let Mr. Riper deal with it?"

"No, no. Parson, we're not goin' there. We might all be separated, might never see each other again. I'll look after them."

"How?" He moved his head slowly from side to side, then added, "You've got to be sensible, Cissie. How can you possibly provide for nine children?"

"As I said. Parson, we can work. If I can find work and see to them I will, but failing that I'll find something for the three top ones."

Oh, dear Lord. Dear Lord. Parson Hedley now joined his palms together and made the sucking sound in the characteristic attitude that was his when troubled, and he looked up into the low sky that was threatening rain; then, as if finding another question there, he brought his head down to her again and now asked, "But where will you live?"

"Live?" As her eyes sprung wide her mouth went into a gape; then she spoke as if addressing someone slightly stupid.

"Well, where we are, of course, Parson."

"Oh child, don't you realize it's a tithe house; Farmer Hetherington will want to put his next man in there. "

It seemed that all the muscles of her face were twitching now and she couldn't control her lips in order to speak. This was the thought she had been clamping down on for the past two days, this was the thought that had been frightening her. But she had smothered it with another thought: Farmer Hetherington was a kind man. But now she had to ask herself if he would be kind to the extent of letting them stay on in his house when he wanted it for another worker. He must, he couldn't turn them out. She was bridling inside herself. She said firmly, "He won't turn us out, not Farmer Hetherington. I'll go and see him the morrow."

Parson Hedley stared at the thin slip of a girl, and in this moment he envied her the quality that made her blind to obstacles, and he hadn't it in his heart to say to her that he already knew the family that Farmer Hetherington was putting into the house towards the end of the week, a man with six children, one of at least two dozen men who had been on the farmer's doorstep for the job before Joe Brodie had been cold.

"Have you any money, Cissie?" His voice was soft.

When she made no answer to this, only stared at him, he put his hand into his pocket and took out a shilling which he handed to her. She did not protest politely and falsely as her mother would have, saying,

"Oh, I couldn't take it. Parson," her hand going out at the same time, but she took the shilling from him and muttered, "Thank you. Parson.

Thank you. "

Mr. Snell, passing at this moment, observed the exchange and she knew he would be expecting a drink out of it. It was usual to give the mourners a drink and a meal; that's why a lot of men went to funerals.

But he would get no drink out of this, this would keep them in bread and fat for two days.

"I have to go now, Cissie." The Parson looked towards another cart which was coming up the pathway.

"I will call and see you tomorrow."

By which time, he considered, she would have seen Farmer Hetherington and know finally that her case was hopeless, and then he would contact Mr. Riper again. Oh, how he hated getting in contact with that man.

Would that God could make him love every man as his neighbor.

"Good-bye, Cissie, and God bless you."

"Good-bye, Parson, and thank you. Thank you indeed." She waited for the children to come up, and when they reached the main gate Mr. Snell was waiting. She looked him straight in the eye and said, "Thank you for comin', Mr. Snell; it was kind of you." Then not waiting for an answer from him she walked on.

They had gone some distance along the road towards home when the cart rumbled past them and the driver, stopping, asked brightly, "You wantin' a lift?" and quickly she answered, "No! No, thank you.

No."

She couldn't tolerate the thought of them all huddled together in the cart where the coffins had lain but a short time ago. As she looked at the cart rumbling away she thought, "Eehl that's got to be paid for. I wonder who ordered it?"

When the first drops of rain came she looked behind her to where Mary, William, Bella, and Sarah were dawdling now, silent, their feet trailing, and she said briskly, "Put a move on, else we're goin' to get wet," and with Jimmy walking by her side she set the pace.

It was as they were entering Rosier's village that Jimmy, speaking for the first time, said, "What'a' we goin' to do, our Cissie?" and she, evading the question said practically, "Get bread or flour. Parson give me a shilling."

They both turned now and looked in the direction of the women queuing outside the tommy shop, the iniquitous retail business attached to most mines where the miner's wife was forced to spend the main part of her husband's wages if he hoped to be kept in work, and she said, "But I'm not goin' there."

"You goin' to Benham then?"

"No, not there either, we're goin' to Brockdale."

"Brockdale? But that's a mile and a half out of the way."

"It might be, but there's a difference of a penny in a quarter stone of flour at Nesbitt's."

"Me ma used to say it was nothin' but chaff." He- was looking straight ahead as he spoke and she, her gaze directed in the same way, answered,

"It might be but it's fillin'."

When they reached the place where the roads branched, one to Heatherbrook, one to Brockdale and the other to Benham, they turned up the Brockdale Road but stopped as they saw a flat cart coming from the direction of their hamlet being driven by the wheelwright, Matthew Turnbull.

With the children about her, Cissie awaited the cart's approach, and when it was level with them Matthew pulled it to a halt and she looked up at him and said, "You can come for the clock anytime, Mr.

Turnbull. " She wondered if he had already been to the house to collect it.

He replied quietly, "That's all right, there's no hurry." He now took his eyes from her and looked at the faces of the children all staring up at him; then jerking his head in the direction of the hamlet he asked, "Aren't you making your way home?" and she answered, "No, we're going to Brockdale first, to the shop."

When he didn't remark on this, Bella, who was a born opportunist, said,

"We're goin' for flour; it's cheaper there but it's a long tramp."

Cissie cast a hard glance towards Bella. She knew what she was after;

Bella was never backward in coming forward; Bella would never die for want of asking. It was strange; she was so like herself in looks, having the same color skin and chestnut hair, but there was no similarity at all in their ways, nor was any other member of the family as forward as Bella. But Bella, as usual, achieved her end, for Mr.

Turnbull was now inviting them all up on the cart. He jumped down, saying, "Just a minute, I'll move these," and picking up two sheep cribs, a hay rake, and a wooden milk bucket, all looking startlingly new, he said, "I'm goin' that way, I've got to deliver these to Bamfords." He was addressing Cissie solely now and went on by way of explanation, which seemed slightly shamefaced although she couldn't understand why, "Make these odds and ends when things are slack. People are running their carts on the rims this last year or so." He gave a huh of a laugh, then added, "There now, there's plenty of room for you all. Up with you!" He took Sarah by the armpits and lifted her well back on to the cart, then Bella and Mary, while William and Jimmy climbed up themselves. Then there was only Cissie, and he stood looking at her for a minute, but before he could extend his hands towards her she had swung herself on to the tail board.

"You'll be all right there?" he asked as she settled herself.