A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (9 page)

Bridie nodded. They reached the gates and crunched up the drive. James said, ‘It seems ages since we left.'

Bridie felt very tired. ‘It is, bonny lad. It's bloody years, it really is. Everything is different.'

James put his arm around her. ‘Don't worry, it can all change again.'

‘Aye, lad,' she said, ‘and I can see a pig flying from one cloud to another.'

Tables and chairs had been set out on the lawn, at which some guests were taking post-luncheon coffee. Others were strolling on the grass. For a moment Bridie forgot she was off duty and darted forward to help Sarah and Mary with serving the coffee. James caught her, and hauled her back. ‘It's our day off, remember. All you've got to do is help Tom Welsh, and I'll be there, too.'

She relaxed. Harry Travers called from the top step of the Hall, ‘Did you have a good hike, you two? Sandwiches devoured, legs walked off?' He was smart in his suit. Kevin stood by his side, his useless hand tucked inside his jacket.

James called back, ‘We had a grand time, Harry. Have you and Kevin been busy?'

Kevin ran down the steps. ‘You missed the excitement, both of you.'

They hurried over to him, Bridie calling, ‘What's happened?'

Harry bawled from the top step, ‘Prancer's a daddy again.'

Kevin swung round. ‘You said I could tell them.'

‘Ah well, you can go with them, how about that for a trade?'

Annie came through from the Great Hall, to stand next to Harry. ‘Beautiful little foal, though she wasn't due until tomorrow. She's a grey, like Prancer. We left you to introduce him to his progeny, bonny lass.'

James was pulling at her. ‘Come on, Bridie.' She ran with him, her empty basket swinging. Kevin joined them, streaking ahead. It was a race then. All three tore along, approaching the entrance to the stable yard, all in a line. She felt the others had slowed, and so they had, and they arrived beneath the arch together. It should have been with Tim, but it didn't matter, not this time.

There was supposed to be no running in the cobbled stable yard, except in emergencies, but they could hurry, so all three did, with Prancer whinnying as they passed his stall. Bridie called, ‘In a moment, Daddy.' They entered through the stables' double doors, and saw the families lined up along the foaling stall, leaning on the horizontal wooden fence. They all turned, and Aunt Ver said, ‘Ah, the hikers return.'

Her mother looked askance at Bridie, who sighed. Her mother was a witch, and clearly guessed that hiking had never been on the menu. She asked a
question without speaking. Bridie nodded, her throat suddenly tight. Her mother came to her. ‘Come on, you three, greet Primrose. She's bonny, and Marigold surprised the lot of us, including Bertram, the vet. She's an eager little mare and was determined to arrive early. He's just hoyed off.'

She walked her daughter to the stall, while James and Kevin followed. Uncle Richard and Uncle Jack, Aunt Grace and Aunt Ver and her da moved up to make room. She could see the foal now, nuzzling Marigold. Primrose was indeed bonny; new and fresh. It helped. She grinned at James. He said, ‘It helps.'

The grown-ups looked puzzled, except for Evie, who told Bridie to bring Prancer. In his stall she put on his halter, and brought him along. He didn't seem impressed. He would be, though, because Bridie would train Primrose to handle the disabled, just as Marigold did.

‘You'll be so proud, my lovely boy,' she murmured, pressing her face into his neck. He had helped her da and others, and he'd work with many more, whatever James said. She looked at Primrose. ‘Yes, he's not that old, and there's the proof,' she said to James, and laughed, as he did.

Soon she must prepare him for Tom Welsh. This was her life. For James was right, Tim had his own. But she really wouldn't think about it, because she couldn't bear not to see him here with them today. She felt as James looked: lost, determined, angry.

Uncle Jack drove the Austin, while Uncle Mart sat in the passenger seat, telling him how to drive, and counting off the miles to Jarrow. He was seemingly unaware that Jack's knuckles were becoming ever whiter on the wheel. Bridie and James, with Charlie – the Easterleigh Hall gamekeeper who had been a POW with her da, Jack and Mart – sat between them, daren't look at one another, and instead stared out of the window at the scenery. Any minute now Charlie would chip in, and then Jack would yell, ‘Who else wants to bloody take the wheel, or do you want to walk?'

At that point Mart and Charlie's game would finish, and the drinks would be on Uncle Jack.

Her da had been in Newcastle overnight with Uncle Richard on business, and they'd be making their own way. If there was too much of a crowd in Jarrow, they'd not even meet, but at least they'd each know the other was there. Perhaps Tim would come on his motorbike. If he did, would he be alone? If he wasn't, would the fascists make trouble: another
Cable Street, with its fascist marchers heading for the East End of London, until they clashed with protesters? It had better not be, or the Blackshirts would be on a hiding to nothing.

Bridie watched the raindrops course down the windows; some were faster, some were smeared by the wind and never reached the bottom.

Were the fascists surprised when the protesters barred their way? The newspapers said that bricks, chamber pots and heaven knew what had been thrown. ‘You shall not pass,' a witness reported hearing one Jewish woman say. It had caused the police to require the fascists to disperse, for the sake of law and order. They'd finally ended up in Hyde Park, where she presumed they hadn't fed the ducks. She tried to laugh but couldn't, because of the question in all their heads, no doubt: had Tim been there?

They were passing through a small pit village now, the terraced houses blackened, the unemployed loitering on the corner, or in doorways, sheltering from the steady rain.

Charlie leaned forward, saying, ‘Watch the corner, man. You're storming into it too fast, bonny lad. We're not charging across no-man's land into the jaws of death.'

Mart yelled over his shoulder, ‘Not so sure about that. He thinks he's driving a canny tank.'

At that, Uncle Jack did the inevitable, drawing into the kerb and slamming on the brakes, so that they were all thrown forward. Bridie caught at the
door handle as Charlie flung a protective arm across her and James, just as Tim had done when they were bairns. Everyone waited. Jack said, ‘Any more ruddy nonsense and you're walking, the lot of you. Not another word, got it?'

‘Aye,' Charlie said. ‘Aye, think we got that, didn't we, troops? If we're good, the drinks are on you then, if I hear you right, Jack?'

The men were laughing as Jack drew away from the kerb, cursing under his breath. James leaned forward, looking past Charlie to Bridie, shaking his head. ‘Same as always. Bairns, the lot of them.'

‘Enough of your cheek, fellow me lad,' Jack called, changing gear and winding his way through the village. They were travelling in the wake of other cars now, and a few charabancs, all heading for Jarrow, it seemed.

Bridie grinned suddenly. She loved her da's marras, loved them so much it gave her a pain in her gut. They made her feel good. ‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with “C”,' she said.

Everyone groaned. ‘Not that old chestnut,' Uncle Mart complained.

Bridie called, ‘No, wrong, not a chestnut.'

The others groaned again. Charlie called, ‘Church.' The spire she had seen in the distance was now on their left.

‘Too clever by half.' Bridie could hardly speak for laughing.

‘Your turn, Uncle Mart,' James shouted. He chose ‘S'.

Bridie grinned at Uncle Jack as he snatched a look at her in the rear-view mirror, his eyes crinkling, his pit scars still visible. But scars like that stayed, because the coal became embedded. She thought it was like a sign saying, I'm a member of a gang, I have marras. We live together, and die together.

Perhaps it was a bit like that at Easterleigh in the kitchens. She smothered a grin. With her mam and Mrs Moore shouting the odds, sometimes it seemed as if death really was close.

Between James and Bridie, Charlie sat hunched with his big hands on his knees, trying to make himself smaller than he was, such was the tight fit. His hands had coal scars from the German mines where he'd worked with Jack and Mart until her da had got them out, and moved them to his officers' prison camp as orderlies and tunnellers. It was Jack and Mart who had developed the tunnel through which they led many to freedom.

‘You started this, so join in,' James ordered. She listened then yelled, ‘School. Too easy for the master of the game.'

‘Ah ha, pride comes before a fall, pet,' Charlie said. ‘So find us a corker then.'

Bridie snatched a look. He hadn't shaved too well this morning. ‘I spy with my little eye, something beginning with “W”.' That would keep them at it for a good while.

‘No, no, no,' she kept replying, but her concentration was wavering. Seeing Charlie's scarred hands,
and recalling the German mines, had made her think about what it was like for the miners. If she was Mine Manager, she knew that she'd do what Jack and Mart did, and go down the pit every few months, just to hear the grumbles, check the props, and listen to the creaking of the seams or whatever it was Uncle Jack said.

Perhaps all bosses should work with the men, so they could understand? Maybe, while they were waiting for the marchers to get going, she'd ask him and Mart what they thought about that idea, though what she really wanted to know was whether they were going to make the men shareholders. She wouldn't ask them that yet, though. Slowly, she was beginning to learn to wait for the moment. It could be something to do with her having turned sixteen a week ago.

At last James said, ‘I haven't a clue, you horrid little worm.'

‘Say you give in then, toad.'

They were drawing into Jarrow now, set on the River Tyne. Gulls were overhead, the rain was still pouring, the traffic was slow. Uncle Jack said, ‘We'll park on the edge of town and walk in.'

‘I give in,' James said, leaning forward. Charlie pressed himself back for her to answer.

She did so: ‘Whiskers. To be exact, Uncle Charlie's; he missed some this morning when he shaved.'

James' howl of protest was drowned by the guffaws of the men, as Charlie ran his hand round his chin.

‘Too tricky by half,' he murmured. ‘We'll have to watch you, bonny lass. Mischief in the making, I reckon.'

They walked to Christ Church in the rain, and stood outside with hundreds of people who filled the workless town that day. Those inside were mainly the marchers, while most outside were well-wishers. Bridie wondered if this march would change things. Would Palmer's shipbuilders open up again, and if they did, who would buy their ships? If Hitler had the money in his pocket to buy a few, would Palmer's sell to the Nazis? The rain was dripping off her hair, and down her face. Gulls squawked.

Inside, an ecumenical dedication service was conducted, and prayers were said for a safe and successful conclusion to the march. When the marchers reached the House of Commons they aimed to present a petition, signed by more than eleven thousand people. Bridie said, ‘It should weigh really heavy, with so many names, because they're more than names, aren't they, Uncle Jack? There's a lot of hope there, and pain.'

Uncle Jack nodded. He looked thoughtful. ‘Aye, lass, you're right there.'

Uncle Charlie put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Not just a mischief maker, then?'

James was putting up his umbrella, borrowed from his father. It was black and large, and more suited for a Durham club or the streets of Newcastle,
or even London. He held it over Bridie, as well as himself. Jack, Mart and Charlie shook their heads at the offer to squeeze beneath.

‘Caps will do the job, lad. Always have, always will,' said Uncle Mart, as the rain grew heavier and doused his cigarette. He threw it into the gutter. They all watched it shred.

Her hair probably looked like the tobacco, Bridie thought, because it was already soaked, and the water was running down her neck. She muttered to James, ‘You could have put it up sooner, you daft beggar.'

He shook his head. ‘No, I couldn't. I forgot about it, and besides, I like you looking like a drowned rat, it will keep you in your place.'

She dug him in the ribs. He seemed more himself today, though for the last few weeks he'd been scouring the newspapers, reading about the fighting in Spain as the Nationalists, who were fascists in all but name, staged a coup against the elected Republican, or socialist, government. She'd grown tired of hearing him mutter, day after day, ‘How bloody dare they?'

The service finally ended, and the marchers began to sort themselves out, the front rank holding the banner ‘Jarrow Crusade'. There was one more, further back. The crowd was talking quietly, and so too was James, who looked over his shoulder to check that Jack was not within hearing distance.
‘Father says that the talk is that the BUF will be told they can't wear uniforms to strut about in any more, after the trouble at Cable Street. In fact, no civilians will be able to, so that's a shot in the foot for the silly beggars. Serve 'em damn well right.'

The march was beginning with Ellen Wilkinson, Jarrow's red-haired MP, leading the way. The cheering was ragged to begin with, but then it grew strong, and as determined as the marchers. Bridie could see very little because of the press of people, but she did see the top of the banner jogging past.

Mart called to Jack, ‘Are we walking along for a bit?'

‘Aye, lad, reckon we are.'

They set off, arranging to meet back at the car if they lost one another. The marchers were heading for Ripon, over sixty miles away, and destined to be there by the weekend. They would stay at village halls overnight. Their boots sounded like a company of soldiers marching. Still the gulls swooped. Bridie wondered how they would know if Tim had come. As they walked with the tide of men, women and children, she turned to James. ‘Do you think Cable Street will have changed his mind and brought him back?' she asked.