Netherwood (9 page)

By nightfall Grangely’s houses were evacuated. They stood blank-eyed and bereft of life in the dark, some of them with doors or windows still open to the elements. A few meagre possessions lay scattered in the mud, discarded by the inhabitants or dropped inadvertently from departing carts. Two hundred men, women and children were billeted in the chapel,
twenty-four were in Samuel Farrimond’s small house, and a further five hundred were sheltering in army tents, a stone’s throw from their former homes.

Eve got her lift back to Netherwood with Solomon Windross, but had to wait for him up on the crags in the teeth of the wind for almost an hour. He’d been busy, he told her somewhat sheepishly, moving three families and the contents of their houses to Sheffield. They had family there, he said, but no means to make the journey.

‘Solomon Windross, I do believe you have a ’eart after all,’ Eve said.

‘Aye. Well,’ said Solomon. He clicked his tongue at Bessie. ‘Get on,’ he said, and stirred her into a steady plod home.

T
he earl was alone in the dining room. That is to say, he was alone at the table, for in fact there was rather a crowd in the room. Strategically and discreetly placed around the perimeter were four footmen in green-and-gold livery, while Parkinson, soberly clad in his immaculate black tailcoat with silver buttons, stood motionless near the door. The table was set for six, but Saturday luncheon was always an informal, come-when-it-suits-you affair, so Lord Hoyland was in no way perturbed at the absence of his family members. On the contrary, he found his newspaper rather better company than his family, with the notable exception of Henrietta who could always be prevailed upon to talk rationally on the subjects closest to the earl’s heart: the estate, the collieries and the damnable impertinence of the Yorkshire Miners’ Association.

On the long sideboard were cold cuts, pickles, bread and a pat of butter, the Hoyland crest now incomplete on its surface since the earl had started tucking in.

‘What’s your take on the Grangely affair, Parkinson?’ he said.

The earl was prone to this, a sudden unlikely question to whoever was closest, be they family, friend, servant or complete stranger. His valet was more accustomed to it than Parkinson,
being more frequently with him in close quarters, but the butler, too, had to be always on his mettle.

‘A regrettable business, m’lord,’ he said now. A typical Parkinson response, nicely ambiguous, leaving him free to join his master on whichever side of the debate he favoured. He had a whole arsenal of non-committal replies for just these occasions.

‘Quite, but entirely predictable, what?’

‘Indeed, m’lord.’

Lord Hoyland folded the
Chronicle
and set it to one side. It was the local weekly, which he read every Saturday and which every Saturday got his dander up with its tendency to romanticise the struggles of the proletariat.

‘If I owned this blasted newspaper I’d veto strike coverage,’ he said. ‘Why pay the troublesome blighters the compliment of publicity?’

‘Quite,’ Parkinson said.

‘What mystifies me is that the whole damn business dragged on for so long.’

‘Baffling, m’lord.’

‘Mind you, the owners are scoundrels. No interest in mining, except what it can earn them, what!’

‘Shameful, m’lord.’

‘And the colliers are wastrels. Wastrels employed by scoundrels. If you ask me, they deserve each other.’

‘Oh, Papa, do leave poor Parkinson alone.’

This was Henrietta, who breezed into the dining room with a rosy outdoor flush to her cheeks and a beech leaf caught in her hair. She was fresh out of the saddle, brimful of energy and good health. She grinned at the butler.

‘You’re off the hook now. He can harangue me instead.’

Divided now in his loyalties, Parkinson executed a graceful, all-purpose incline of the head and pulled out a chair for the new arrival.

‘May I serve you with lunch, your ladyship? Or would you prefer to help yourself?’

‘A slice of everything going, please,’ she said, then turned to her father. ‘Simply gorgeous out. Cold, though. By the way, Jem said to say he’s repairing the fencing by the gallops if you want to find him.’

Lord Hoyland reached across to extract the rogue leaf and said: ‘Any sign of Tobias? I want to take him to New Mill today. I thought, if he’s actually there at the sharp end, as it were, it might help him take an interest.’

Henrietta said nothing, though her expression was easy enough for her father to interpret.

‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘Uphill struggle.’

‘Losing battle, more like. Ooh, yum. Thank you, Parkinson.’ A brief silence descended while the butler placed a loaded plate in front of her, then she said: ‘Terrible business at Grangely. Have you been over there?’

‘To Grangely Main? Don’t be absurd. None of my business.’

‘Well, no. But perhaps we could help. I’m sure they must be desperate for donations.’

The earl, irritated by her wrongheadedness, spoke sharply.

‘Condone the strikers? Preposterous notion.’

‘Mmmm,’ she said, mildly. ‘I suppose it was more the children I was thinking of.’ Her face clouded briefly, then immediately brightened.

‘Tell you what though, Daddy. I’d love a trip to New Mill with you.’

He looked down and sawed at his roast beef. ‘Also preposterous.’

‘Why? I’d love to. Nothing I’d like more, in fact.’

The earl looked at his daughter fondly.

‘Do let’s,’ she said, sensing weakness.

‘It’s no place for a lady, Henry.’

‘I’ll go in disguise. Toby’s trousers fit.’

He raised an eyebrow.

‘I shudder to think how you discovered that.’

‘Look,’ she said. ‘You won’t get Toby there in a month of Sundays. So take me – in a dress, something dowdy though – and I’ll tell him what he missed. We’ll snare him that way. Make him feel he’s missing all the fun.’

He smiled. There was perhaps method in her madness.

‘Your mother mustn’t ever know,’ he said.

‘Marvellous!’

‘You’ll need sturdy boots. And a hard hat when we get there.’

‘Even better.’ She beamed at him. ‘When do we leave?’

‘Meet me at one. I’ll have Atkins keep the motor in the yard so we can slip out the back way.’

They shared a complicit smile, then gave their food the attention it deserved.

Saturday was, without any shadow of a doubt, Seth’s favourite day of the week. Eve and Arthur’s eldest was an earnest, thoughtful boy, who spent more time than your average ten-year-old contemplating life and all its facets. So when he settled on Saturday as the first of the seven contenders, it was after scrupulous consideration of the merits of the other six. Even so, his careful list of the attributes of every day put Saturday ahead by an indisputable margin. There was no school, of course – a significant point in the day’s favour but not, in fact, the chief source of the boy’s pleasure. Unlike most of his peers, Seth found schoolwork easy enough to be enjoyable and any dread he claimed to feel on a Monday morning was entirely feigned. His only school-related complaint was Miss Mason’s insistence on openly praising Seth’s ‘thirst for knowledge’ or ‘inquiring mind’, with which unwelcome compliments she
singled him out from the pack. He wondered time and again at his teacher’s failure to understand that the pack was where he wanted to be.

No, the absence of school wasn’t part of it at all. What Seth loved about Saturdays was the mixed array of special qualities that each one held in varying measure. The smell of a ginger cake in the oven, perhaps, on this one day of the week that Eve baked what she called ‘fancies’; the spring in her tread that meant his mother was neither cross nor tired; an idle quality in the air, a feeling of liberty and leisure that sometimes evaporated if he didn’t make himself scarce quickly enough to escape a chore, but at least existed as a possibility when he first woke; the certain fact that the next day was Sunday and his father’s cap and jacket, with their smells of outside and underground, would still be on the hook with everyone’s things when Seth came downstairs in the morning. All these things, and more, had accumulated over the years in Seth’s subconscious mind to make him treasure the prospect of a new Saturday. And today was more special still, since his father had promised Seth he could accompany him to the knur-and-spell match on Netherwood Common. Not to play, of course; the visitors this time were near-neighbours from Rockingham way and they were a sly lot, not above stamping a good, long ball into the ground so it couldn’t be counted, so there was no room for a novice on the Netherwood team. He would be allowed to carry Arthur’s pummel though, and his prized stash of clay balls, and he was bound to be needed as a seeker – his young, keen eyes could follow the small, white knurs as they flew through the air, no matter how many yards they went, or how awkwardly they landed.

Arthur, sitting in the tin tub in front of the parlour fire, was in a cheerful frame of mind too. He’d got in just after half-past one after a satisfactory shift at New Mill and walked into the kitchen to be granted a warm smile from Eve, which boded
well for his Saturday night prospects in the marital bed. Added to this pleasing train of thought was the match later this afternoon, piping hot water in the tub and a mug of strong tea just within reach on the mantelpiece. What else could a working man ask for? More hot water, that’s what.

‘Seth,’ he shouted and, as if he’d been waiting for the call, the boy stuck his head round the door.

‘See if your mam can manage another bucketful, son,’ said Arthur.

Seth staggered in moments later with a fresh pail of hot water which he’d dipped into the great set pot in the kitchen.

‘Tip it over mi ’ead,’ said Arthur. ‘In a steady stream, like. We don’t want a flood on yer mam’s rug.’

To Seth, the water seemed to be still simmering in the zinc bucket, and it scalded his hands where it splashed, but he had never yet fetched water that was too hot for his dad. Arthur tilted his head back to receive it, and let it pour over his face, through his hair, down over his shoulders. He handed Seth the long-handled brush and the boy diligently scrubbed at the parts of his back that were still dirty. Arthur liked to be clean, scrubbing at his nails and jiggling fingers in his ears, winkling out the coal dust from every cranny and crevice. Seth’s grandfather, Ephraim Williams, had never let anyone scrub his back. He left it black, the dust ingrained like oil on a wooden table top, to keep it strong. Seth never knew Ephraim, but Arthur had told him stories, especially about the black back, so that in Seth’s mind he held a clear image of his grandfather: doughty, heroic, deeply superstitious. Ephraim believed coal dust had healing qualities; wash it away, he told Arthur, and you sap your strength. He died in a firedamp explosion and was carried out of the pit with his eyes, nose and mouth packed with the stuff, so Arthur took against the theory and Eve was grateful for it. The wives of black backs had the filthiest linen in the country.

‘It’s good weather for t’game, Dad,’ Seth said, more in hope than in confidence since outside the afternoon sky was looking uncooperative, and as grey as an elephant’s hide. The steam from Arthur’s bath had misted the windows and Seth had to rub a small, face-sized patch to see out. ‘No wind to speak of.’

‘Nowt wrong wi’ wind, as long as you’re not hittin’ into it,’ said Arthur.

Seth coloured. His father never allowed him an opinion. It was annoying, when all Seth wanted was a sage nod of agreement. ‘No, but too much wind an’ it’s not a fair contest,’ he said. ‘Mr Medlicott said.’

Arthur heaved himself upright and stood naked and unself-conscious, one arm outstretched for the dry towel. ‘Well if Percy Medlicott says so, it must be right,’ he said.

Seth passed his father the towel. He felt pretty sure of his ground this time.

‘Mr Medlicott said in a fair contest, every player should ’ave same advantage. If you ’it t’knur and t’wind carries it, it’s not a true length.’

‘Aye, well, if Percy Medlicott ’its t’knur, it’s a blasted miracle,’ said Arthur. ‘’E’s t’only fella I know who calls ’imself an expert at a game ’e can’t play.’