The Miner’s Girl (25 page)

Merry stood still, humiliation washing over her in waves.

‘Escort this woman off the premises,' said Dr Macready.

‘What? What?' Doris gasped. ‘She let my grandbairn die!'

The doctor ignored her.

‘Yes Doctor.' Jim Hawthorn grasped Doris's arm in a grip hardened by years of wielding a pick and shovel at the coalface. But she wasn't going to go so easily.
Taking him by surprise she wrenched her arm away and swung round on Merry and spat in her face.

‘You bloody whore,' she cried. ‘I bet you don't even know yourself who fathered that lad.'

Merry fell back, as white as a sheet.

‘Get her out,' Dr Macready said to Jim and he did so, propelling Doris through a waiting room full of patients, all wide-eyed to see it.

‘Take a minute,' the doctor said to Merry who was shaking. ‘Breathe deeply now, you'll be all right. Sit down, the next patient can wait five minutes.'

Merry sat down and stared at her hands, which were clasped tightly in her lap. The doctor left her alone and got on with writing up patients' notes. After a minute or two her pulse steadied and she felt better. She took a long breath and got to her feet.

‘I'm all right now, Doctor,' she said. ‘Thank you for dealing with her for me.'

‘Nonsense, I won't have anyone coming into my surgery shouting the odds. I would deal with any troublemaker the same way.'

‘Shall I call the next patient, Doctor?'

He nodded and she went to the door and opened it. ‘Next to see the doctor,' she said. All faces in the waiting room were turned to her but she held her head high. A woman with a little girl got to her feet. ‘Howay now, Nellie,' she said and walked in. She smiled at Merry as
she passed her, a smile that told Merry she was on her side and Merry felt a small uplift of spirits.

Kirsty looked out over the lawn to the rear of the house and smiled when she saw Benjamin playing with a ball. It seemed so strange having a child about the place, she mused. She and Ian had never had any children and to be honest, she hadn't missed them, being entirely wrapped up with Ian and her art. Yet somehow, since she had told the boy he was welcome to play in the garden, the sight of him there seemed so natural and right. She stepped through the French windows and called to the boy.

‘Would you like some lemonade, Benjamin? Mary has made some fresh this morning.' She always called him Benjamin because when they had first met this was what he said his name was. In fact she had been there when he had told his mother his name was Benjamin and not Benny. ‘Benny is a baby's name,' he had said.

The boy came running to her. She could hardly believe the change in him since that first day. There was actually some colour in his cheeks and she could swear he had grown a couple of inches, though it was barely six weeks later. Mainly though, it was the change in his manner that was so noticeable. He was no longer the timid child he had been but more sure of himself, not so quiet, even mischievous at times.

‘Sit down and have a rest,' she said. ‘I'll get the lemonade.' Benjamin sat down obediently and waited until she returned carrying a tray with a jug of lemonade, two beakers and a plate of biscuits. His eyes sparkled – he had not tasted lemonade until he came to live at the doctor's house and he loved it. He took the beaker eagerly and drank thirstily.

‘Slowly, Benjamin,' said Kirsty and he stopped and looked apprehensive until he saw she was smiling. She offered him the plate of biscuits. Carefully he put the beaker down and took one.

‘Ta, Missus,' he said and began nibbling round the edges. By, it was lovely, he thought. Was this Heaven?

‘Say “Thank you, Mrs Macready”, Benjamin,' she prompted. She was slowly trying to improve the way he talked. At least his mother didn't mind her doing that – she wouldn't have if Merry did.

Kirsty looked out over the lawn towards the small wood at the bottom of the garden. The leaves on the trees were already beginning to turn shades of russet and yellow even though there was still warmth in the sun and against the blue sky the ash and willow trees looked amazingly beautiful. There was a copper beech in the corner and the brightness of its leaves was dimming to what it was in the summer but it was still beautiful against the leaves of the two sycamores behind it. She would sketch them, she decided, and went into
the house for her pad and pencils and watercolours. Perhaps she would even have time to finish it before the light went.

It was a couple of hours later and she was finishing the colours off from memory when Ian walked through the house and into the garden. He saw her sitting at her easel with Benjamin beside her, the boy paying close attention to everything she did. In his hand he held a drawing of his own.

‘Here you are,' said the doctor. ‘Benjamin, I think your mother wants you to go home for tea.'

‘Yes, Doctor,' said Benjamin without lifting his head.

‘Go on then,' Ian said gently.

‘In a minute, I just want to—'

‘You had better go now,' Kirsty advised him. ‘I've finished anyway.' She began to pack up her materials. ‘You can help me tomorrow if it's fine.'

‘Promise?'

‘I promise. Go home now, love, and show your mother what you've done.'

Benjamin got down from the bench and trotted off round the side of the house to the entrance to the surgery and flat above.

Ian took his place on the bench. ‘You like having him here, don't you, Kirsty,' he said.

Kirsty smiled. ‘I do,' she replied and showed him her watercolour sketch. Sitting cross-legged on the grass below the beech tree she had drawn the small boy. He was leaning over a board with a pencil in his hand, obviously absorbed by what he was doing. The likeness was striking; she had even caught the pale colour of his hair as the sunlight touched it.

‘Has he made you wish you had had children of your own?' the doctor asked.

‘No, not really. We're happy as we are, aren't we?'

Ian nodded, relieved. ‘Come on in now, dear,' he said. ‘I'll get us both a drink before dinner.'

‘Can I have a box of paints, Mam?'

Merry took the plates of Welsh rarebit out of the oven and put them on the table. ‘Mind the plate, it's very hot,' she warned. ‘Take some bread and butter to eat with it. I'm sure you must be hungry after being out in the fresh air all day.'

Benjamin obediently took a piece of bread and butter and dipped it into the melted cheese. Merry watched him for a minute before starting her own meal. She was happier than she had been in years despite the fact that every single day she still thought of Alice, her little girl. When she could she went to the tiny grave and sat for a short while there, but she was always nervous in case she should bump into Robbie or his mother. Her
father-in-law didn't worry her – on the one occasion she had bumped into him unexpectedly in Newgate Street, he had simply smiled and walked on.

‘Can I, Mam?'

‘Can you what?' she replied absently. The cheese was rich and gooey in her mouth and she savoured it, eating slowly.

‘Mam, I asked you, please, Mam, can I have a paint box? And proper brushes. Mrs Macready says you have to have the proper brushes.'

‘Oh, Benny – Benjamin,' she corrected herself hastily. ‘I can't afford anything extra just now.' She didn't get a big wage from the doctor and most of her money went on necessities. This week she had had to buy new shoes for him to start the new school year this coming Monday.

Benjamin said nothing, just looked down at his plate and began pushing his food about.

‘Eat it,' Benjamin,' she said gently. ‘Maybe at Christmas eh?'

Tom decided to take the train into Bishop Auckland when he at last had a Saturday free. It had been weeks since he had seen his father and stepmother because of the diphtheria epidemic, and he had had to put Miles off visiting him earlier in the summer, as the disease was suddenly raging over most of the county.

At least it had eased now the cooler weather had arrived, he thought, as he cycled in to Durham Station with the wind chill in his face. Soon it would be winter and that would bring its own plagues of colds, influenza and chest complaints.

‘A third-class return to Bishop Auckland, please,' he said to the man in the ticket office. No sense in wasting money on a first-class ticket for such a short journey, he reckoned. The wind whistled down the platform as he stood waiting after seeing his bicycle onto the guards van. Fortunately the small local train came in on time
and he took a seat by the window. As he always did he watched out for a glimpse of the cathedral and castle as the train chugged out of the station. How many children's epidemics had it seen in the hundreds of years it had stood there, he wondered idly, and stretched his legs out before him. It was good to relax; this was the first full day he had had free for weeks. His thoughts turned to his father as he wondered if he was any happier in his marriage. Why on earth had he married Bertha Porritt in the first place?

Tom had to admit to himself that he knew why, really. It was the chance of owning his own mine, or even more than one, that drove his father. But perhaps he was being unfair to him; perhaps Miles really was in love with his wife. He shifted uncomfortably on the hard seat. The only other person in with him was a housewife with a large covered basket on her lap. She smiled as he glanced over to her, showing crooked teeth; he nodded and turned back to the window. They were pulling out of Coundon Station, just one stop before Bishop Auckland.

Tom's thoughts wandered to Jane Hall. At one time he had thought the two of them might make a go of it but she had made it plain that the life of a doctor's wife was not for her.

‘A girl would have to be a saint to marry a family doctor,' she remarked after Tom had had to cancel a date for the third time in a row. He hadn't asked her, he said to
himself but not to her. Later she had become engaged to a lecturer at the university and was getting married in November. He had to admit that his heart was not broken.

The train went into the tunnel by Canney Hill and out into the daylight on the outskirts of the town. They were there. He waited as the housewife got out then followed her onto the platform. Soon he had his bicycle and was cycling the short distance back out to Canney Hill and his father's house.

‘It's good to see you, Tom,' Bertha said primly and offered her cheek for him to kiss. ‘It certainly is quite a while since you visited us.'

‘I'm sorry. It has been a busy summer, what with—'

‘Yes, I'm sure,' she interrupted him. ‘You are so like your father – always too busy for his family.'

Tom let that pass and moved to shake his father's hand. Miles was looking older, he thought, and slightly harassed which was not like him.

‘Why didn't you bring the trap?' asked Bertha and wrinkled her nose. ‘You smell of smoke.'

‘I enjoy a train ride,' he replied.'

They sat down to a lunch of vegetable soup and salad with pressed tongue, a meat that Tom knew his father disliked. Bertha made most of the conversation; his father ate his food and answered when spoken to. Afterwards the two men went out into the conservatory that Bertha had had added, while Miles smoked his pipe. Bertha had
announced her intention of slipping into town for a few odds and ends as she called them.

‘It is not often I can use the trap,' she said to Tom, though she was watching her husband coldly as she spoke. ‘Miles insists on living here and he needs the trap, he says. Though why we can't have a carriage—' She had shrugged. Miles did not rise to this.

‘How are you, really, Father?' Tom asked when the pipe was going well and Bertha had gone off down the driveway.

Miles laughed shortly. ‘I'm well enough,' he replied. ‘Don't worry about your stepmother and I. She talks a lot but I have learned to let it wash over me. She has her good points.'

After the tedious hour at lunch Tom had some difficulty in thinking what they might be but he did not comment.

‘It has been a bad summer of diphtheria and scarlet fever,' he remarked. ‘I understand it has been the same in Winton and Eden Hope.'

‘Yes,' his father said. ‘These people have no sense of hygiene, that's the problem.'

‘How can you say that? What can you expect when the only water tap for a whole row is in the street; when there is no proper drainage or sanitation? This hot summer we were lucky to escape cholera. This is the twentieth century, surely we can do better.'

Miles took his pipe out to reply. ‘For God's sake, Tom,' he snapped. ‘Can't you talk about anything else? I haven't seen you for months. Haven't you got a nice girl yet? When are you going to give me any grandchildren?' He was going red in the face.

‘Calm down, Father,' said Tom. ‘You'll have an attack of apoplexy if you're not careful. I'm sorry, you're right, I shouldn't talk about work.'

Miles grunted and drew on his pipe causing acrid fumes to swirl and rise to the glass roof of the conservatory.

‘I asked you a question.'

‘Yes, sorry,' Tom said again. ‘No, I haven't got a future wife in mind at the moment. I don't have much spare time, you know, and women don't like having to take second place to a job of work.' For some reason his father's question had brought to mind not Jane Hall but a picture of Old Pit in a snowstorm and the young girl who had wanted to be a nurse. She was married now, had been for years. She probably had half a dozen children and was middle-aged and careworn before her time, like some of the miners' wives that were his patients at Burdon.

Miles talked a little about his work: how one seam in Winton was petering out; how they had decided to sink a shaft to try to reach Busty seam but their efforts were hampered by water which they were pumping out into a new reservoir. The chances of actually making a profit after all this capital expenditure were poor and they
would likely have to reduce the men's wages further. The chance of unrest if this was done was very real – the miners' Union was becoming too powerful, that was the trouble.