Easterleigh Hall (32 page)

She ran along the haha, crossed the grid and hurtled between the acers, chasing the sound of the dogs. ‘Please let her be alone,' she panted. ‘Please, please.' There were the dogs, skittering around Lady Veronica's feet, barking as she held out a biscuit. They were getting too fat. How trivial. Why did the mind come up with nonsense?

The breath was heaving in her chest and a stitch was slicing into her side. The dogs must have heard for they left Lady Veronica and tore towards her, then back to their mistress, then towards her again, nipping at her boots. Evie slowed to a walk and approached. Lady Veronica stood watching her, puzzled. ‘Evie,' she said, ‘am I needed? Is there an emergency?'

Now she was here Evie couldn't think how to start. She blurted out, ‘You owe me a hat. I don't need it, I have another.' She waved hers. ‘I was there, you see, at the meeting. It wasn't just Grace who saved you, it was me, too.'

Lady Veronica held up her hand as though she was stopping a runaway horse. ‘I know, of course I know. I'm not stupid. Lady Margaret also recognised you when she heard you speak. I've often wanted to share my thoughts with you about the route the Pankhursts are taking, but it's just so difficult, isn't it? You're not supposed to be there, and neither am I. Heaven knows what Captain Williams would think. Hush, Currant.' Lady Veronica gave the dog another biscuit. Evie started to speak, but Lady Veronica sailed on. ‘I have your hat, it reminds me all the time of what's important. We simply must have the vote, mustn't we?'

Bugger the vote, Evie wanted to shout. Instead she said, ‘I simply must keep my job and you are the only one who can help me. I'm a Forbes, you see. My name isn't Anston. Roger has discovered this and I know he will tell your brother, and I will be dismissed. I will tell your father of your suffragette activities if you don't help me, and Lady Brampton, and Captain Williams.' The shame of those words would remain with her wherever she went. The wind was bending the branches and the temperature had dropped further. She realised she was shivering. She looked at the hat which hung limp in her hand.

The dogs were jumping at Lady Veronica, and then at Evie. Her nose was running; she found her handkerchief and blew. Still nothing was said. She forced herself to meet the eyes of her mistress at last. Lady Veronica had paled, her hands were clasped in front of her. She said, ‘I would have helped anyway, Evie. You didn't have to blackmail me.'

For the first time for a long while, Evie cried. It was all just too much, and the tears wouldn't stop coming and neither would the apology which she repeated and repeated, shame making her want to sink into the ground and never emerge. Lady Veronica reached forward and wiped Evie's face with her gloved hand. ‘My dear, we all do what we have to do, and now I want to know what's happened to bring this about.'

Evie knew she would never forget that this woman had reached out and touched her, comforted her, when normally
they
would only receive a letter if it was on a salver, not given by hand. She had to pull herself together, she had to, because time was running out. She told Lady Veronica then, about the attack by Roger, about Millie's pregnancy and the revealing of Evie's secret. ‘She kept it for so long. She could have told him before but she didn't,' Evie concluded.

Lady Veronica nodded. ‘Well, Evie Anston, because it's best that we know you as that, I will be speaking to Roger the minute I return to the house. Do we have any ammunition, do you think? Does he take wine from the cellar, or steal in any other way? A pregnancy won't be a threat, he knows that. It's always the woman's fault.' The glance they shared was bitter.

Evie shook her head. ‘I don't know.' It was hopeless.

Lady Veronica called the dogs to her. ‘Go back and help Mrs Moore. We can't have you leaving because Mr Auberon and I know that she can't manage without you, though it's best that we keep this between us, don't you think?'

Lady Veronica put on the dogs' leads, and hurried away. ‘Thank you,' Evie called.

Lady Veronica waved a hand but didn't turn. ‘This will now be forgotten, Evie, and I lay claim to the hat for ever. Is that acceptable?'

It was, indeed.

Lady Veronica found Roger in Auberon's dressing room, brushing down his dinner jacket. She slipped through the door quietly and closed it behind her, leaning back against it. She disliked this odious man intensely. He was like a snake and used his position to overawe silly girls who then faced a life of ruin. Everyone knew but nothing was done, and it was time that changed.

She said, with no preamble whatsoever, ‘Roger, it has been brought to my attention that you have been stealing from Lord Brampton's cellar.' She had no proof of this, it could be quite untrue, but what did that matter when it came to an accusation by a mistress to a servant?

Roger turned, his thin face stunned, and the brush dropped from his hand. ‘That's a lie.'

She stood straight, recognising the incipient violence in the man, for, after all, she had spent much time with her father. She kept her expression as disdainful as anything her stepmother could drum up and knew she must speak with no hesitation or uncertainty. ‘I will do nothing about it but will expect absolute discretion concerning the name of our assistant cook. I will not be without her and it is I who will be lady of this house on my marriage, for this will be our home. We cannot afford to be without someone of her skill, but we can afford to be without a valet. You would be easy to replace. Remember that my father has already had occasion to be displeased with you over the loss of the Froggett houses. One word, Roger, just one word and you will never work in this or any house again.'

The rapid passage of emotions across his thin full lipped face was fascinating. Fear, anger, fury and fear again. Finally there was acceptance and hatred. Well, that was mutual.

She left the room without another word. Power was addictive and dangerous, and must not be abused. With one word she could ruin a person's life. Whether she told Aub about Evie was debatable. He
should
know, but did he
need
to know?

TIMMIE'S BAIT TIN
clattered against his belt as he and Jack walked ahead of their father on their way to their Saturday shift at Auld Maud. It was 5 a.m. and dark. It was a bit of a leg but he liked the walk, and Mam's scarf kept out the worst of the wind. It was 2nd January 1913, and he swore he'd heard a cuckoo yesterday on a walk, but Jack said it was a pigeon if it was anything. ‘It's bloody winter, you daft beggar.'

‘Is it colder this winter, do you think?' Timmie pulled his muffler over his nose.

‘A bit, maybe.' Jack sank a hand into his jacket pocket, his bait tin clattering as loudly as Timmie's, his tools hitched over his shoulder.

Timmie told him that he had just one more lead soldier to paint and then he'd have the whole regiment. There was no reply. ‘Did you hear that, Jack? Just one more to go.'

‘Aye, I heard you, but it's like walking next to an empty vessel, with all the chat from you. It's before dawn for pity's sake, man.' Jack was quieter these days, he had been for months now, but perhaps Millie might make a difference. Timmie had grumbled that she was a bit of a feeble lass really, and cried a lot. Jack said that you did when you loved someone and you couldn't have them. Timmie thought his brother was trying to take Millie out of herself.

He nudged Jack. ‘Let's go to the club tonight, shall we? I fancy a beer.'

His da called out, ‘Not too many for you, Timmie. You're still only sixteen and haven't the head for it, or have you forgotten the last time? Your mam won't have that mess on her proggy rug again. You'll be seventeen by spring, so celebrate then.'

‘Howay, Da, I'm doing a man's job and no, I haven't forgotten, how can I with you lot reminding me every Saturday. I'll never have as many as that again but it'll never be your fiftieth birthday again, will it?' They were entering Easton and Martin, Jack's marra, came out of his backyard and fell in next to Jack. Tony, Timmie's marra, came from his yard and fell in next to him. ‘We're like the whelp's Territorials, marching in step,' Timmie called back to his da.

Jack tipped his cap at him. ‘Platoons don't talk, they march.'

Tony said, ‘Or they're lead and sit on a shelf and do nothing, while the rest of us work.' They laughed.

Steadily they were gathering men including Ben, his da's old marra, and Sam. Ben walked with Bob, talking of his painting. He'd offered to paint Timmie's collection in action, when the final soldier was finished.

‘Not long now, Ben,' Timmie threw over his shoulder.

Jack called out, ‘That's what he said a week ago.'

‘Well, it takes time. No need to rush it. Now we have Millie it's been harder to concentrate with all her caterwauling.'

His da called, ‘Ah, she's getting sorted, aye, she is. She'll move on when there's somewhere for her. Grace is on to it, isn't she Jack?'

Jack grunted. ‘How should I know? I only dig for her from time to time.'

All the men grew quieter as they trudged up to the pithead. It was the first day back. Had the whelp kept his word at last and reinstated the cavil? Davies was waiting for them, holding up a piece of paper. He was grinning. ‘It's here, lads. Cavil's reinstated. You can draw any time you like now, so have an extra beer tonight.' There was no cheer. They should have had it months or a year ago, or two, but quietly they looked at one another and smiled. Timmie slapped Jack on the shoulder.

‘You'll be sorting the drawing then, Jack?' Martin asked. ‘Aye, it'll be the committee who'll do that,' he replied.

Timmie saw his smile and knew that Jack was relieved. He'd have the chance of drawing a better placement at long last and what was more, Da had just heard from Davies that an extra beer was in order. He grinned across and his da shook his head in mock exasperation. ‘Aye, I heard, but remember the rug.'

Discarding their jackets and picking up their tokens and lamps, the men shuffled into the cage, their spirits lighter. Timmie was on the tub today, though sometimes he was with the wagons and Galloways. He preferred the ponies, and his mam had given him a carrot for them. He closed his eyes as the cage plummeted into the darkness. He couldn't bear it, but he'd never tell his da or Jack. They seemed to take it in their stride but Jack always stood with him as he did today, his arm touching his, and the pressure comforted him.

At the bottom they trudged to their placements, the heat and the smell, and the dust sinking into his lungs before he'd gone more than a few yards. Their lamps lit the way, a dull glow. Tony came with him to the stables which had been carved out of the rock and coal, and they each fed a carrot to their favourite, Twilight.

Timmie said, ‘They know us, Tony.' He loved the snuffling of the muzzle against his palm, but not the slobbering bits of carrot that fell from Twilight's mouth. He shook his hand free of them, and then pulled the pony's ears. He left Tony to harness up and trudged the mile to the placement he would be serving today.

Jack scuffed along. He was tired, always tired now. Sleep was slow to come, because all he could think of was Grace. It was pathetic and he kicked out at the dust. Martin elbowed him. ‘Watch your step, I don't want any more muck in me than's there already, you silly beggar.'

‘Sorry, man.' He'd hoped the longing for her would fade in the face of her indifference. After all, she just needed someone to dig. He'd tried other women, of course he had, but she was there, in between, and it made for this anger that gnawed at him. No wonder he won his fights every time. It was a way for it to come out.

His da was walking behind him, but not for long. He stopped at his kist and called out as Jack and Martin plodded on, ‘I'll check the roof and the props at Ben's seam, then I'll be along.'

‘Aye, Da.' His father had survived two strikes as deputy, at the request of the men. They wanted him checking their placements – he was thorough and painstaking. The economies were still in place and the recycling of the props had increased. But the cavil was reinstated so Jack's coal grade could be better, and Timmie's run of tubs stood the chance of improving once out of Brampton's control. He made himself listen to Martin talking about the football. Always it was the footie, and he smiled now. He liked routine, he liked what was normal.

Martin took the lead, humming as the roof dropped lower and lower, taking the scabs off their backs, and half a mile in Martin knocked his head on an outcrop. The hum became an oath. The roof sighed, the pine props creaked and hissed, coal dust fell into their eyes as their lamps shone a yard or so in front. They stopped, waited. It was nothing. Jack fell back a few more paces, trying not to breathe in or swallow more dust than he had to. ‘Nearly at the face, lad,' Martin called, trudging on.

Within ten minutes they were there, crouching even lower as the roof sloped to two foot six or thereabouts. ‘It's a bugger of a face, and it's going to be grand to have the chance of better,' Martin shouted to him. He always shouted at the face. Jack had asked why but the lad didn't know. He just did. So he kept on doing it and it had kept him safe so far. ‘Hang on,' Jack called. ‘Wait for Da. He's coming, I can hear him swearing, he'll have caught his head, so it's not just you, lad.' They both laughed as his da appeared, crouching and dragging two short props and a stool.

Jack said to Martin, ‘I'm sorry, lad, for the poor . . .'

‘I don't want to hear that again. I told you last time, and the time before that. It's not your fault the whelp's the bastard who put us here again.'

‘I've brought you a cracket,' Da said. ‘I reckon you could cut in and make more headroom.' He handed the short stool to Martin and peered in the gloom at the roof, wedging a prop under a miniature fault. He held his lamp higher, checking again. ‘Keep your eye on that, lads, and I'll be round in a few hours.'