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Turnbull. If they had gone to the mill on their own, she guessed they would have had short shrift; the miller liked Mr. Turnbull, and the woman, Rose, did an' all. Oh yes, it was clear for all to see.

Perhaps they were courtin', very likely, and she wanted to please him.

Still, no matter what the reason, she was grateful to them, but most of all to Mr. Turnbull. Oh yes, she was grateful to him; she didn't know what they would have done without him these past two days.

Matthew stopped once so that she could buy a pen north of yeast, and he did not put them all down where the roads met but took them to within ten minutes' walk of the hamlet. And when they were standing on the road she said to him, "We've taken you out of your way," but he shook his head as he replied, "There's a path across the fells; that will get me to Benham in no time."

She stood now gazing up at him, her brown eyes deep and soft with gratitude, her lips parted and moving wordlessly before she could begin to thank him.

"I ... I don't know what to say, you've ... you've helped us so much.

The clock is there any time...."

His eyes moved over her face. The milk of the skin round her mouth merged into pink on her cheek bones. There was no hollow under the eyes, the skin went tautly up to the lower lids, where the lashes curled back on to them like fringes. Her hair, escaping from the black kerchief round her head, was lying damp on her brow. There came over him a most weird sensation as if he were being lifted out of himself and standing aside from all past experience. It was disturbing, for he was a practical fellow. He had the impression that all her features were merging into one and he could see nothing but a silver light that grew brighter and brighter. He blinked his eyes and shook his head, and the light faded and he saw her eyes staring at him in some surprise now, and quickly he explained the spasm that had passed over him by saying, "I've, I've got a toothache, it gives me the jumps now and again."

"Oh!" The exclamation was full of understanding. She knew what toothache was.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Mustard's a good thing." And to this he answered, "Aye, it is. I'll plaster it when I get in." Then turning abruptly from her, he said over his shoulder, "I'll call within the next day or so for the clock"

; and, mounting the cart, he started up the horse and turned it on to the fells, but he didn't say good-bye or wave. She understood this, and so did the children for they'd all had toothaches.

They went along the road, walking closely now and silently, and as she got nearer to the hamlet the sorrow deepened in her, and she realized that she had almost forgotten it during the past two hours. She comforted herself with the thought that at least they were set for the next three days; she had bread, cheese, and turnips, and with the tuppence she had left she would get a pen north of pig's fat and a pen north of skimmed milk, and she'd make the latter do for a couple of days. Oh, she'd manage. And she must remember what her da was always saying, never give up hope for it was that and not an empty belly that would kill you.

When they had found the farm laborer from Pelaw dead in the ditch outside the hamlet last year her da had said he hadn't died so much of hunger but from loss of hope; so she must go on hoping, and something would happen to change things.

It did the following morning.

She stood in the muddy farmyard, the glar coming over the uppers of her patched boots, and she said in a whisper laden with fear, "But where will we go?"

Farmer Hetherington moved his heavy lower jaw from one side to the other, then pursed his lips before saying, "There's only one place and you know it. You should have let Mr. Riper arrange it tother day.

It'll be a lesson to you if you can't get them in there after all and have to go on the fells. You're not the only family left like this, there's dozens around the countryside and it's ten times worse in the town 'cos the fever got a hold there; you should have jumped at the chance when you got it. "

She couldn't believe that this was Farmer Hetherington talking, he had always been kindly, giving nothing for nothing, except turnips, which he had so many of the buried them, but nevertheless he had always been civilly spoken.

An hour ago when he had sent the herdsman to tell her that they must be out the day after the morrow because another ploughman was coming into the house she had yelled at him, "He can't, he wouldn't do it to us, me da was bonded to him."

"Aye," said the herdsman, "but he took his wage weekly, that makes all the difference, ya can't eat your bread an' have it."

"I'll go and talk to him," she had said.

And she had talked, she had begged, almost prayed to him. Her hands were still joined in front of her waist as if in supplication, but all to no avail. The longer he talked the harsher his voice became; finally he offered her help in the way he considered best by saying,

"I'm going into Jarrow shortly. I'll get into touch with Mr. Riper for you if I can."

"No!" Her voice was low, her expression bewildered, but she went on,

"They're not going to the house. As you say, we can go on the fells as others afore us have done; but there's one thing sure, we're not goin'

there an' be separated."

When he just stared at her, saying no word, she stared back at him, and now with a dignity that made him grind his teeth together she said, "Me da always spoke well of you. Farmer Hetherington." And on this she turned and made her way across the dung and mud morass of the yard.

It had rained heavily in the night and the caked ridges of the road had flattened out and the ruts and hollows were now pools. Unheeding, she made her way around them and between them, all the while crying deep within her, "Oh Da. Oh Da." She didn't think with regret of her mother; her mother had been weak and helpless and evoked her pity, but her da had evoked her admiration and love because he could always find an answer to everything that concerned them.

She didn't know at first why she stepped off the road and climbed the bank on to the tells; it wasn't until she found herself skirting a disused quarry that she realized where she was making for, and when she reached the place she stood and gazed at it. It was a hollow within an outcrop of rock, not large enough to call a cave but deep enough to shelter eight people from the rain, and with room to spare.

She remembered the last time they had all been here. It was Easter Sunday and her da had given them each a paste egg; he must have cooked them when they were asleep so as to give them a surprise, and he had put dandelion roots and bark into the water to color the egg shells.

Each of them had carried his egg in his hand as if it were made of gold and then they had stood at the top of the rise over there, below which the land sloped steeply away. They had stood in a row on the rim and her da had shouted, "Ready, set, go!" and they'd all rolled their eggs down the hill and run, screaming gleefully, after them. But before they could come up the hill again it had started to rain while the sun was still shining, and they had scrambled into here and peeled their eggs and their da had sprinkled salt on them, and as they ate them they nearly choked with laughter at the funny things he kept saying. It had been a wonderful day.

She walked nearer to the entrance and looked down at a patch of black earth. Someone had been here recently and had made a fire, likely a road tramp. She walked under the shelter of the jutting rock and gazed at the dim interior; then with deliberate steps she paced the distance to the wall. It was four steps in depth and five in width, which was larger than the room at home. She would take the wooden beds to bits and rig them up at each side, leaving the middle free. And that would hold the table. The clothes box could go to that side at the foot of one bed and the chest of drawers at the toot of the other. She wished the entrance weren't so high; it was going to be difficult to rig up something to keep the rain out if the wind was this way. They'd have the fire outside and concoct something on which to hang the round bottomed kale pot. But she wouldn't be able to bake, she'd have to buy bread. But what would she buy bread with?

She walked into the open again, across the flat shelf of shale to the edge of a long slope which dropped to a rough road. The slope was covered with early foxgloves, saxifrage, and parsley fern. When she saw it last it had been dotted with patches of shy headed cowslips.

She turned to her left and walked off the edge of the shelf and onto a grassy rise that ended in a hill, and from the brow she looked in the direction of Jarrow and the river. But she wasn't seeing the village or the little shipbuilding yard, she was seeing the mine.

"I can't help it." She spoke the words aloud, as if she were answering her da, and on this she walked rapidly away.

When, ten minutes later, she entered the house on the point of a run she startled the children by saying, "You, Mary; gather all the dishes together and the pans and put them in the cradle. Everything that will go in put in the cradle. And you, William; bundle up the beddin'....

Where's Jimmy and Bella?"

"Jimmy's out getting' wood and our Bella went out to play down by the bum."

"Charlotte." Cissie turned to the five-year-old child and said harshly, "You go down and tell Bella to come back here this minute, she's wanted. And you, Sarah; gather the clothes up from the other room, everything. Bundle them big enough for you to carry." Then turning to William again, who was standing staring at her, she said,

"Before you start, go and find Jimmy."

"Where we goin', Cissie?" William's voice was small and she answered,

"I'll tell you all about it when you bring Jimmy back. Now go on."

Within five minutes Jimmy came running into the house with William behind him, and straightaway he asked the same question as William had done, "Where we goin', Cissie?"

Before she answered him she went and picked up Nellie from the floor, and she was holding the child with one arm astride her hip when she said, "The cave near the quarry. We've got to get out by Friday; it's either that or the house. "

The two boys stared at her, their lower lips sagging, and she looked from one to the other now and said, "And that's not all; you'd better come in here a minute."

She went into the other room and they followed her, and after saying to Sarah, "Take that lot out into the kitchen," she closed the door on her. Then turning to the boys, her voice harsh again, she made a statement.

"There'll be no work for us until the tatie pickin', will there?"

After a moment Jimmy shook his head and said, "No."

"Well then, how do you think we're goin' to live?"

Their eyes seemed to grow wider as she looked at them.

"Will any of the farmers take you on 'round here?"

To this Jimmy answered, "What's the matter with you, our Cissie? What you getting' at? You know we can't get set on, we've tried."

"WAll, where could you get set on?"

They remained quiet for a moment, and it was William who said in a very small voice.

"You mean the pit, Cissie?"

To this she answered, with her eyes downcast and her voice low now, "I can't help it. Me da said he would never let you, but what are we goin' to do? It's either that or we go into the house, and you know what that means.... And they would send you to the pit from there anyway, or up the flues. Joe they'd surely send up the flues 'cos he's small."

It was William who spoke again.

"Johnny Fisher, he's only nine and he told me he got four and six a week and their Sam seven and six. But he's eleven."

Cissie looked at William. The prospect wasn't frightening him . as yet, but it was Jimmy, Jimmy who was afraid of the dark. But he had pluck, had Jimmy. She said to him now, "What do you say, Jimmy?" and looking back at her he said soberly, like an adult man, "If it's the only way, it's the only way, isn't it?"

It was settled then.

"When we get all the things out," she said, "we'll go down and ask Mr.

Martin or Mr. Fisher how to go about it." Then turning abruptly and opening the door, she added, "We've got to take the beds to bits; we'll need every bit of wood we can get our hands on. Let's get started. "

She put the child on the floor again and set about organizing their removal.

No matter how warm the day, it became cold around three o'clock in the morning. They might all go to sleep with their legs straight out but in the early dawn they were huddled together in a fleshy heap. Cissie had woken up when the stars were still bright in the sky and she had warned herself not to go to sleep again. She had no way now of telling the time except by the dawn, for the last thing she had done before leaving the house was to send Jimmy with the clock to Matthew Turnbull's in Benham. To her surprise he had returned with Jimmy and stood aghast as he looked at the cave and the odds and ends of their household goods lying around the mouth of it, and he had exclaimed grimly, "You can't live here," and as she busied herself putting the planks together for the bed she had answered him, saying, "It's a dwelling, it's a dwelling. It'll do until I can find something better."

Then he had surprised her further by stamping away as if he were in a temper. But he had been back every day since, and had never come empty handed. He had even brought her a packet of tea, a full quarter, and yesterday a bag of pig's chitterlings.

These had been better even than the tea; she had made such a meal as they hadn't had in weeks.

And today the boys were starting work. Mr. Martin had been very helpful, but at a price. For getting them set on he was claiming a shilling out of each of their first week's wages, and he had warned her that they might not be paid for a fortnight or even three weeks.

They didn't bond the boys, he said, unless they were workhouse apprentices for they weren't employed by the mine owners but by a but tie This, he explained to her, was a man who contracted to bring the coal from the coal face to the shaft bottom and who would take on as many youngsters as he could get, and he liked them small and thin like Jimmy because they could get through the narrow low passages. He said Jimmy could start straightaway putting, and the standard wage for putters was six and six a week, but if he cared to do double shifts and work hard he could make as much as twelve shillings, whereas William, he said, being on the broad side and bigger than Jimmy, although only eight, would go in as a trapper. He also put her wise to the fact that they might have to take part of their wages in a food ticket, and that it she wanted a sub on her brothers the but tie would advance her the money at the rate of a penny in the shilling. The ordinary shift, he said, started at five and finished at five.

BOOK: i 57926919a60851a7
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