Easterleigh Hall (25 page)

It was cavil day the following Sunday and Jack sipped his beer in the club Reading Room, waiting for his turn to draw, though this time he would let his marra pull out the placement. There'd already been several abnormal placements called, but a man just had to accept his luck. So far Alec, Si's da, had pulled a placement in the top seam, which was good coal and easy to hew, but Ben, his father's old marra, had pulled an abnormal one, which he accepted with a philosophical nod of his head. He was probably thinking of his next painting, not the shallow, low-roofed danger of his shale placement. Jack wasn't thinking of the draw, but of the negotiations surrounding the Eight-Hour Act, the results of which were to be announced in about a month. Jeb had heard nothing of any interest from the union agents. He felt his stomach twist. The men should be kept informed, it was only right.

Jack was called up with Martin, who hummed and kissed his lucky rabbit's paw before drawing his ticket. Thomas, the checkweighman, read out, ‘No. 13.' Jack slapped Martin's shoulder. ‘You've a lucky touch, lad. Always had, always will.'

Timmie was waiting near him, but as a trapper he wouldn't need a dip. His da came to him. ‘Good news travels fast, Jack. That's a pure seam.' It didn't matter quite so much now they had the house, but the balance still had to be paid to Grace and Edward, and money put to one side in case of a strike or a downturn in piecework rates.

Jack stared into the distance, feeling anxiety clawing at him, for they'd not win any strike unless it was national, and then only if there was no coal stockpiled. There was plenty now at Hawton and Easton. He'd tried to argue the case against coming out with Jeb, saying they had to wait until the National Federation of Miners agreed to back them and call out all the pits.

He grinned at Timmie as he came up, a beer in his hand. Jack rumpled his hair. ‘How's the beer?'

‘Right grand, Jack.' There was a dark blue scar on the lad's forehead, and several on his hands, and it was as though Timmie felt blooded. Well, he'd learn. ‘You stay careful, you hear me,' Jack said, gripping his brother's shoulder.

Behind him his da was coughing. He needed to be out of the pit before too long, so thank God Evie had the plan for the hotel and was growing in experience, thank God they would keep their house if his da had to retire.

Timmie was watching as his da shouldered his way towards the bar, and he said, ‘Are we helping Grace again next Sunday? She'll need someone to run the houses, won't she, when they're finished, if she is to start a retirement place? D'you think . . .?' He pointed towards his da.

Jack wanted to hug the lad. ‘By, you've been giving it some thought, haven't you? I expected those would fly past your two brain cells, but you must have grown another. Aye, he'd be right grand as boss of the houses.'

Timmie punched his arm and Jack rousted him in return before pulling him close. ‘You're canny, you are. I'll get Mam to bring it up when Grace is at the houses.'

Timmie shook his head. ‘You know she won't mention it, she'll see it as charity. Ask Grace yourself, you're round at the houses often enough.'

Jack moved away, uncertain suddenly. ‘We owe them, that's why, and she needs help,' he snapped and moved to the bar, barely hearing Timmie say, ‘I didn't mean anything by it. You
are
there a lot, that's all. She needs the place set to rights, so why don't I help as well as you, then it will be fixed quicker.'

Waiting for a beer, Jack realised then that he didn't want it fixed quicker. He didn't want anyone helping but himself. She was nice, quiet and gentle, she smoked Woodbines, her green eyes were beautiful. She listened when he talked.

Ben came up and slapped his back. ‘I'll get that beer in for you, man. Might rub a bit of your luck off on meself.'

‘No, you're all right, Ben, I need to clear my head. I'm getting on home. See you at the allotment tomorrow, man.' He walked out, the frost creating a layer of crystals on everything. There'd be a hoar frost in the morning. He went by way of the parsonage. The lights were on and he thought he saw her drift across the window. He paused for a moment, imagining her chaotic hair as it fell so often from her bun, her freckles. How could someone years older seem like his age?

The strike began on 1st January 1910 because the agents hadn't had the bloody sense to involve the men in the decision, and there was little to do until it ended in April except gather up coal from the slag heaps or beaches, sell what they could, and eke out the days. By that time one general election had taken place but had not given Asquith the majority that would mean he had a mandate from the public to push through the budget to fund the reforms. There would need to be another election, and still the Lords held firm in their blockade. It seemed distant to Jack, and nothing to do with the humiliation of defeat and empty pockets, as he stood with the committee in Davies' office, their caps in their hands, while Davies and Mr Auberon sat at their desks.

Jack saw the whelp's eyes on him, and him alone, and heard his laugh as Jeb admitted defeat. ‘So, Jack Forbes,' Auberon said. ‘You're just an agitator, always were, always will be, and a grasping one at that, one who snatches things when they're destined for your betters, so what can we do to bring you to heel?' Jack felt the shock as though it was a blow. Of course, the house. What price was he to pay? For the first time above ground he felt fearful.

Auberon continued, ‘So, Jack, who's the daft beggar now? I don't feel it's me.' Jeb turned to Jack, a question in his eyes. Jack shook his head. Daft beggar? What was the bastard talking about? Jeb raised his eyebrows and said to Mr Auberon, ‘The committee is in this together, and no one thinks you're a daft beggar. Why would you think that? Mr Davies, what's this about?'

Mr Davies stared over their heads as though wishing he was elsewhere. Mr Auberon just laughed again. ‘Well, why would I, Jack?' Jack didn't understand but in that instant he knew that he was going to be dismissed, for whatever reason this fool could drum up. Was this going to spill over to the men, to Evie?

Auberon lounged back, knowing now what it was like to have someone at his mercy, and for the first time he understood his father.

‘I am not going to dismiss any of you, because you are experienced men and we need you.' He picked up a pencil from the desk and rolled it between his fingers, seeing their surprise and relief. He continued, ‘I am not in the business of cutting off my nose to spite my face, so you will start work in the shifts Mr Davies and I have designated and in accordance with the Eight-Hour Act. As recompense for the upheaval this foolish strike has caused I will be taking over the designation of placements. There will be no cavil any longer in this pit, is that understood?'

Relief was superseded by shock, and then anger. Jeb spoke. ‘You can't do that. It's our right to decide where we work. It always has been, it's a democratic process.'

Jack had clenched his hands into fists and was balancing on his toes. Auberon's reply was immediate. ‘You are mistaken. I most certainly can and will do it. There is no legislation regarding the cavil, there is only tradition, and what's more I am most conscious of the importance of democracy to you all and therefore I give you a choice. You, the committee, resign and the men continue with the cavil, or you stay and they lose it. In the interest of democracy I insist you put it to the general vote.'

The silence was profound. Jack said, ‘I resign.' The others followed, though more hesitantly.

Auberon placed the pencil carefully on the blotter which lay on his desk. ‘And I refuse your resignations. It's easy for you, Jack Forbes, with your house. If these men resign they will be evicted. They can't all cram into the parson's clever little idea, can they? So, I repeat, you must put it to the vote.'

They did, catching men as they came on each shift over the next two days. The vote was carried out in the club. They voted to lose the cavil. Every member of the committee received abnormal placements and Timmie was moved from trapper to putter, but in Jack's abnormal placement. Their income would be reduced, their safety at risk. His da, who had remained as deputy on the wishes of the men, had the kist nearest to the worst abnormal placements, including Jack's.

Auberon rode home on Tuesday, ran up the stairs to change, was about to call into the sitting room to tell Veronica of his achievement but midway he noticed the time. His father was waiting for him in the library. Auberon entered. ‘Well,' his father ground out between clenched teeth. ‘You dismissed them as I suggested?'

Auberon shook his head, his legs like water, his voice too high. ‘No, I didn't.' His father stepped forward. Auberon stood his ground, moving on to his toes as Forbes had done, and found it gave him courage. He explained his actions. There was a silence and his father paced to the window, staring out at the cedar tree. Did it give him peace, as it gave Auberon? Did this man ever desire anything as pale as peace?

Auberon found his voice again. ‘You see, they have been hoisted on their own petard. They wanted democracy, they've got it, and they are there as an example of our power. If they had been dismissed we would have replaced them and they would have been forgotten. It's called rubbing salt in the wound.'

His father's shoulders were shaking and a strange noise was building. Auberon realised he was laughing. ‘Chip off the old block, you are, my boy. Damn it, we're turning you into a Brampton at last. A brandy is in order.'

He pointed to the sofas either side of the fireplace. Auberon had never been permitted to sit in the library. It felt strange. He did so, and his father came to loom over him, handing him brandy, and then sat opposite, raising his glass. ‘To you, my boy.' His smile was ghastly and unseen by Auberon until this day.

Auberon sipped and the brandy seared his throat. He had drunk too much in the last two years and it hadn't helped with Wainey's loss, with his loneliness. Would anything ever? He allowed himself to sit back as his father did, crossing one leg over the other as he also did. The fire was lit, the flames flickered and soothed. It was strange to be in his father's presence without pain. It was good, it was bloody good.

‘Drink down the brandy, boy.' He did as instructed and accepted another. Again his father loomed over him and before he could stop he shrank, but then straightened. When he left ten minutes later, light-headed, he mounted the stairs to his room. Once there he leaned back against the door. He had been clever, he had been unforgivably clever but it was the only way he could think of to keep the committee in their houses and their families fed.

But had it really been necessary to put all the Forbes into the same area of the mine, where they would all suffer if there was an explosion or flood? He knew the answer to that and the worst thing was that he knew he'd do it all over again, because Jack Forbes had laughed at him, told that Manton woman he was a daft beggar and been at the forefront of the strike, whatever Davies said about him being the only calm voice speaking against it. He was known as an agitator and agitators got their comeuppance.

Ver knocked and he moved from the door to his sofa. The fire was unlit, and it was cold. She entered. He waved her to sit. She stood instead, just inside the door.

She said, ‘Well done, Wainey and Mother would be proud of the way you've outwitted Father and kept the committee in work, but I simply don't understand why you've taken against the Forbes family in this way, especially as Jack Forbes was the one who warned against the strike. Dr Nicholls told us all about it at dinner during the strike, you know he did. Be businesslike, Aub, and rotate the abnormal placements in the interests of fairness, then you can reinstitute the cavil after a year or so. By then Father will be too involved in the dreadnought contracts he's almost got in his pocket. Once the extended steelworks is in full production he'll barely think about the pits.'

He drew out his cigarette case, took one. Lit it and stared at her through the smoke. ‘Forbes laughed at me in Froggett's yard, he called me a daft beggar, so let's not talk about it any more. Come and sit down.'

She joined him, looking tired. ‘You can't let that make you behave badly. I expect he regrets it if he even remembers.'

Auberon drew on his cigarette again and said nothing for a moment. Then, ‘How are your women getting on?'

Veronica sighed, her lips pursed as they were when she was angry, but her feelings weren't his problem. She said, ‘The Pankhursts are supporting Asquith's proposed Conciliation Bill which offers votes to married women of property and wealth only. They call it a foot in the door, I call it wrong, really wrong. We need all ranks to have the vote. Meanwhile I have the damnable “coming out” conversation morning, noon and night while our stepmother is here.'

She leaned forward, staring at the Indian rug. ‘Nothing stays still, does it? There's so much division, so much wealth, so much poverty. Sometimes I wonder if there's going to be a revolution. I'd revolt, wouldn't you, if I was them?' She pointed in the direction of Auld Maud.

‘But we're not.' What more could he say?

TWO YEARS HAD
passed and still Evie's menfolk were in their abnormal placements, still the cavil was suspended and still she was here, serving tea to the nobs in the kitchen. It was March 1912 and the strikes which seemed to hit every area of the British workforce during 1911 had spread to the mines. A national strike had been called to force owners and government to agree on a sensible minimum wage within the Coal Miners Bill.

Evie eased her back and wished Mr Auberon and Lady Veronica would hurry with their tea and go.

They'd avoided the kitchen like the plague during the extraordinary heat of the long summer last year. Mr Harvey said that according to the
Daily Sketch
it was going to go down in the record books as the hottest summer ever. Well, they should have brought those record books into the kitchen and she would have shown them what heat really was.