A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (14 page)

James shrugged, but a pitman near them called, ‘Why d'you think they're wearing red, man? Course they're bleedin' Reds.'

Jeb was leaving the stage. He tried to shake hands with Fred, the communist rep from Lea End, who took his place. Fred brushed him aside. The commies near them cheered. Fred stood there with his hands on his hips. He was also wearing a red scarf. ‘Bosses,' he bawled. ‘You 'eard him. Bosses, your old rep said. He needs to step down, 'e do. We still have bosses, when we should be the ones owning the bloody pits.'

There was a cheering from the three men, and from a few others dotted about the place. Now there was a press of men moving forward.

‘Get him off,' a pitman near Bridie shouted, shaking his fist.

‘Let him speak,' the pitman next to him bawled, throwing his stub to the ground. ‘Bloody bosses.'

James muttered in her ear, ‘I don't recognise those men over there, do you? With the mufflers?' He was pointing to a couple in the centre, and suddenly there were more men dragging red scarves from their pockets, strangers in the main. ‘Have a look over there.' He nodded towards a couple of miners who yelled, ‘You tell, 'em, Fred.'

Fred was shouting, gesticulating, just like the fascists. Why did people have to be so extreme? Did they just like the sound of their own voices? She said, ‘Do they all wear scarves?'

A pitman in front turned round. ‘Aye, or else they'd forget who they were, Bridie lass. How's your mam?'

A man behind them laughed, cupped his hands and bellowed, ‘You're keeping us warm with your hot air, Freddy. Bet it's a mite warmer here than Moscow. Have a cosy chat with Stalin, did ye, on your last trip, man?'

Fred retaliated, ‘There you are, then, lads. Listen to Andy over yonder, chatting to the owner's lass.' He was pointing now. ‘He's a lapdog, a donkey led up garden path by a wee bairn.'

A pitman from way behind yelled, ‘Or a donkey led by bigger bloody donkeys by the names of Jack Forbes and Martin Dore.'

Fred took up the thread, ‘Not donkeys, but a pair
of bloody dachshunds sitting in the lap of bloody Auberon Brampton, and what a name that is to play with.'

Bridie found her voice now, ‘That's not fair. You know that's not fair, Fred Benton. We've a grand safety record, good pay . . .' But she was only one voice amongst many, so she pushed forward, wanting to get close, and tell him to his face.

James pulled her back. ‘Stay with me, don't you dare go off.'

All around her people were arguing, as Fred ploughed on. The crowd was shifting, lurching this way and that. Bridie was knocked to one side. James grabbed her, holding her to him, shouting against the furore, ‘Stay with me. Damn it, Bridie. I shouldn't have brought you down this far.' He was shouting to be heard.

She shouted back, ‘You didn't bring me, I came by myself, you daft beggar.'

The stewards were working their way through the crowd, calming it down. It grew quieter, and Fred continued, ‘Oh, yes, shake your fists at us, but when the workers take over you'll be scampering along on our coat-tails, like pigs at a trough.'

‘Who're you calling a pig?' a man beside her roared. It was Anthony Selwood from Hawton, one of Uncle Mart's pitmen, who had dressed as Father Christmas at the Easterleigh Hall party for the bairns. The yelling and shoving all around grew worse, and suddenly there was a push towards the
stage. One steward fell, and was trampled. The others were swept along.

James' grip tightened. ‘We're leaving.'

They tried to force their way back, but the press of people was too great. James yelled, ‘We'll get to the side.' He took her hand, weaving his way through, but then there was another push, which became a surge, and on top of this the shouting grew louder, and then the yelling of men in pain, and men enraged. A group of men were carving their way across the front of the stage, heading for a group of Reds, while others, wearing red scarves, were barging the surge.

Someone yelled, ‘It's the fascists.'

The pitmen near James and Bridie spun round. One grabbed James' arm. ‘Follow us, there's going to be heads bloodied this afternoon, man. We need to get her out.'

‘Leave the buggers to it, they can bash one another's heads in,' another yelled. ‘Waste of bloody time, anyway, listening to Fred's rubbish.'

The pitmen were carving a path of their own, and James and Bridie tucked in behind, but then there was a surge from the left, and behind, and now more yelling, and the fascists were here, a mob of them, wielding their fists, knuckledusters and clubs, clashing with the communists and anyone else in their way. Bridie fell, James was knocked down. A pitman stepped on Bridie's hand, his boots gouging the skin; her blood seeped into the scuffed snow. He
pushed on past, dragging his young son. Behind them she saw a Blackshirt punching a pitman, who was giving as good as he got.

She scrambled to her feet and heard James shouting, ‘Bridie? Bridie, where the hell are you?'

She was buffeted on all sides. ‘Here,' she almost screamed, her hand up high, though how would he see it in all of this? But he did, and now she saw him ducking and diving, and side-stepping his way back; he was charged then, by a fist-wielding pitman wearing a red muffler. James went down.

A fascist powered into the communist and they fought, stepping on James, kicking him out of the way. Bridie screamed as a boot just missed his skull, but caught his nose. It began to bleed. It was his blood on the snowy ground now. Another kick thudded into his legs.

Bridie forced her way through the heaving bodies. She powered into the back of the fascist before he could kick James again. He slipped and fell. The communist turned, barrelling into another brawl, leaving James on his knees, shaking his head; his blood sprayed through the air. She pulled at his arm. ‘James, come on, get up.'

The fascist was rising, and then he grinned at someone. A punch caught her on the ribs. She felt a sickening crunch, and fell, as James at last got to his feet. Bridie lay, winded, the pain in her ribs like nothing she'd known. She looked up as the two Blackshirts nodded at one another, their faces alight
with excitement. One was Tim. It was he who had punched her.

James flung himself at him. ‘You hit her, Tim. You bastard, have you gone mad? And you shouldn't wear a uniform. It's outlawed. Outlawed, do you hear?' He was punching ‘Outlawed. Outlawed.' The other fascist hauled him off, throwing him down next to Bridie.

Bridie saw the excitement disappear from Tim's face and confusion take its place, as she turned on her front and got to her knees, feeling as though she would vomit. Someone else ran past, knocking her flat again. She gasped at the pain of the jolt. She rose yet again, and now she was lifted to her feet and steadied by Tim, who gripped her face between his hands. ‘I didn't know it was you, Bridie,' he said.

She whispered, ‘But you knew it was someone. You shouldn't wear your uniform in a public place. It's been forbidden after your Cable Street march.' She knew she was repeating James, but it kept going round her head and it kept her from crying. ‘You shouldn't wear it. Do you hear me? You shouldn't damn well wear it. And I don't know who you are, any more.'

She tore from him, and now James was on his feet, and together they pushed through the crowd. Behind them they heard Tim call, ‘Damn you, James, you shouldn't have brought her. She's just a bairn, for God's sake.'

They cycled home. The wind was at their back. It
numbed the pain of her ribs, and seemed to have stopped James' nosebleed.

When they reached the crossroads where she would turn right for Home Farm, and he left for Easterleigh Hall, James said, ‘I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'

‘For what, bonny lad? He was the one in the wrong, and I'd have gone on my own if you'd said no. He knows that, he's trying to squirm out of it.'

‘I'll cycle you back.' He wouldn't listen when she said no.

He cycled her across the yard to the back door. She said, ‘He's a stranger.'

James nodded, but said nothing.

He cycled away, knowing that he had to take a stand after all. Democracies had to be supported, and protected. There was time here for the country to come to its senses, but for poor bloody Spain it was running out. Franco and the fascists were gaining victories. But he couldn't go now and let Uncle Aub down. So he'd have to finish at Home Farm first, and then he'd be off. But he had to keep his mouth shut, or Bridie would come too, as she had said, and that couldn't happen. She must be safe.

That same evening Tim arrived at Easton Miners' Club, though he no longer wore his uniform. He switched off his motorcycle engine and waited for a moment, feeling the pain of his knuckles, shocked at himself, remembering the thud as he punched Bridie. How could he not know it was her? How? Because he never expected them to be so stupid, and she'd been wearing those daft jodhpurs, so how was he supposed to know it was a girl?

He took off his leather gloves and stuffed them in the leather jacket Millie had given him at Christmas. He'd talk to Bridie, explain that it was a mistake, that she had to understand it was a battle bigger than them all. It was a fight against mayhem. He stared at the club. Tonight of all nights he didn't want to be here, talking to his da, for what if he'd heard about the fracas? But he needed that forged letter for Heine and his mother. His da would help. He always did.

He dismounted and walked inside, into the noise, the smoke, the smell of beer. He eased past groups of standing pitmen who huddled together, nursing beers and bruises. He pulled his cap further down.
His da was with Mart at a small table. Mart looked up, surprised. He said something to Jack, nodded to Tim, and rose. ‘I'll get you in a beer, man.' There were beer rings on the scarred table.

His da nodded. ‘You had a good afternoon, I hear, son.'

Tim's heart sank. He said, ‘Can't have Fred having it all his own way, and being bloody rude about you.'

Jack nodded, watching his son closely. ‘He won't get his own way, trust me. I've got it sorted, and all will be well.'

They both laughed at Grandma Susan's mantra. Did his da guess that it had nothing to do with Fred's insults and everything to do with implementing fascism? For a moment he was shocked, because he'd never actually put his mangled thoughts into order before. Mart reappeared, leaving a pint on the table for Tim, telling them he was going to see a man about a dog. Jack sipped his beer.

Tim looked at his. They sat, a heavy silence between them. Jack pushed his half-full glass away at last, leaned forward and said, ‘You seem vexed, son. How can I help?'

Tim took a deep breath. It was what he'd been waiting for. ‘It's Mother,' he said. ‘She's glad you and Mam are married, but unhappy because she and Heine can't yet, because she needs . . .' He stopped, and then started again. ‘Well, you see . . . I don't know why everyone seems to hate her so much, just
for running off with a German. He's a good man, Da. Successful, patriotic, and he had the same war as you, even to the point of being a prisoner, so you should understand. You love Gracie, after all.'

Jack's gaze was steady on his son. ‘The first thing is that no-one hates her, as far as I know. The past is the past, and we've all moved on. Your mam has a new life, and you're helping her to live it, which is grand. So . . . ?'

Tim felt irritation sweep through him. ‘It's so easy for you; you have all this, and a family. She only has me.'

Jack looked puzzled. ‘Well, you've just said she has Heine, and surely they'll have friends. I don't understand what you need, son?'

Tim took a gulp of his beer. It was warm. Heine drank his cold. ‘That's just it, Da. She sort of has Heine, but there are rules now, she says. Rules on who can marry who, and . . .'

Jack looked stunned. ‘But she's not a Jew, is she? I know her Aunt Nellie sent out her birth certificate. Now, if she is, that
is
a problem, and it damn well shouldn't be.'

Tim shouted, ‘No, it's not that, just listen.'

People fell silent around them. Jack immediately laughed, and everyone relaxed. He was a clever man, thought Tim, in the way he knew just how to handle, or defuse, every situation. Tim said quietly, ‘Of course she's not a Jew. Heine wouldn't touch her with a barge pole if she were. No, it's just . . .' He
groped for words. Around him talk and laughter flowed. ‘Oh, forget it.'

He picked up his pint and downed almost half, gulp after gulp, while his da watched. ‘Put your pint down, son, and listen. Your mam was always, how can I put this? She wanted things she didn't have – and why not, in a way? Her da was killed in the pit. She and her mam lived with Aunt Nellie in Hawton, and there wasn't room, not really. You've just said she has Heine, and will share his success. This will calm her. Most of all she has you.' His da's voice became harsh. ‘What more could she want, for God's sake? Wherever she goes there's . . .'

Tim felt a shaft of fury take over: why the hell was everyone, his mother included, making his life so bloody difficult? He slammed his hand down on the table. His grazed knuckles were plain to see. ‘There's what? Listen to you, Da. You married her, for heaven's sake, just to fill the gap left by Timmie, just as she said. Well, I'm not Timmie, I'm hers and Roger's. You lot took everything from her—'

‘Jack, we need to talk.' It was Jeb, the union rep, rushing up, bringing the cold with him. ‘I can't hold Fred back, he's stirring up a hornets' nest.'

Jack waved him away. ‘Give me a minute, Jeb. We'll need Mart in on this, and I reckon he's in with the darts team. We've a plan to sort it once and for all.' Jeb nodded, and headed for the other room.

Jack swung round to Tim. ‘You listen to me, lad.
You said “you lot”. We're not a “lot”, we're your family, just as much as Roger or Millie. You filled no gap, son. You're Tim, and your mam chose that name, to honour Timmie, and we were grateful.'