IT WAS A ten minute walk to Old Bert’s Field, and Evie heard the steam engine pumping out its music the moment she stepped from the scullery into the yard. It was a glorious evening, and the excitement would have made her smile, if she wasn’t already. She touched her hair. There was little wind and she felt hopeful about the curls she had rescued by tying up some strands with bits of rag and hanging over the range.
She left by the back gate, hurrying down the alley, pausing as Mrs Grant called to her from the communal tap. ‘You have a good time, our Evie. Make the most of your last day. Glad you have the job. That Miss Manton is a good sort and a bloody good boss, for one who’s little more than a bairn herself. By, she must only be twenty-seven, if she’s even that?’
Evie laughed. ‘No need for the telegraph round here.’
‘Nay, lass, we all have big lugs in this alleyway. We’ll miss you though, and don’t you worry about your Jack. He’ll settle and see how it’s right for you, just like he will about your da.’ Her sacking apron was splashed with water and black from her man’s bath. She was scrawny and thin but as strong as an ox, and had bred six children without trouble, though one had died last year in the pit. The purple beneath her eyes had deepened daily since then.
Evie shook her head. ‘I haven’t told Jack yet, Mrs Grant. I don’t want anyone to say anything until I’ve seen him.’
‘No one will, you mark my words, and this will be the best day, knowing you’ve got it but haven’t started rolling up your sleeves and being put in your place from morning to night.’ Then she laughed. ‘Take no notice of me. I’m just jealous.’
Evie sped on. Miss Manton had come just ten minutes after Jack had stormed away. Her mother had peered into the kitchen first, and shooed Da out into the yard to check on his pigeons. He had winked at Evie as he went. Miss Manton entered the moment he had gone, her hair escaping from beneath her hat as it always did, holding out her hands to Evie. ‘Clever you,’ she’d said. ‘I need to find a new cook, but it’ll have to be someone special to come up to your standard.’
Miss Manton had gripped Evie’s hands, her leather gloves soft but cold from the wind. ‘You are on the way, dear girl. Now remember what I told you about Mrs Moore. Her hands are so bad that she can’t do her job properly. The rheumatism is in her back and legs too and she needs your help in order to keep her job, but she doesn’t know she does. Do you understand what I mean?’ She’d given Evie no time to reply, rushing on. ‘Yes, of course you do and in this way you’ll learn more quickly. I’m also afraid that she is drinking to help with the pain. Be aware, be kind. Protect her. Work hard, make something of yourself. Your brother will come to understand.’
She’d spun on her heel. ‘Now I must run. I am going to the Gala, for Edward is to bless it. I’ll break the news to him that you are no longer in our employ. Trust me, my brother will be downcast, he so adores your forequarter of lamb, not to mention your honey-roast ham.’
Then she stopped, and took an envelope from the pocket of her tweed coat. She turned once more. ‘For you, Evie, with my gratitude for your efforts on our behalf, and I hope to see you at the Suffragette meetings on a Sunday, or even a Wednesday afternoon, when you can get away. Get a message to me and I will meet you in the trap at the crossroads near Easterleigh Hall and we can talk French as we journey. You know I feel how important another language is, especially when owning and running a hotel as you intend to do one day. You are a force of nature, my dear, isn’t she, Mrs Forbes? She’ll end up with the Claridge’s of the north-east, mark my words. Mrs Moore knows more French than she lets on, too, so if you get the chance . . . Goodbye now.’
She was gone, like the whirlwind she was, always rushing from one place to the next. She’d make someone a wonderful wife, she had once said, if she had any intention of marrying. But she wanted to be her own woman and she would be, once they had the vote.
Evie reached Old Bert’s Field to find it thronged with people and music and laughter, and over everything there was the smell of suckling pig slow-roasting over the pit. The Easton and Hawton Colliery banner rested near the entrance. It had been sewn by the local women decades ago, and would have been blessed by Edward Manton and the Methodist minister at the start of the proceedings. They took it in turns, year on year, to be first with the blessing, and it made her mam laugh. ‘Why they can’t just do it together I’ll never know, but even in religion someone has to win,’ she’d said.
Evie felt in her pocket. Miss Manton had given her two guineas which were already in the savings pot but she had received her wages as well, a shilling of which would be spent tonight.
She almost hugged herself as she wove her way between her neighbours and friends, all wearing their best clothes and freshly greased boots, longing to tell them that soon she would be a cook of renown. The grass had been cropped by sheep loaned by Froggett so there was a fair smattering of sheep droppings but who cared, this evening was for fun. She ran through her plans again. She was going to work just five years for Lord Brampton, gleaning all the skills possible, and then she’d move to a hotel to get the experience she’d need for the future. The family could sell the house they would have bought by then and move into their own hotel. Her cooking would help bring them customers, and the men would never go in the pit again.
She laughed aloud. It had seemed a dream until today, but now it was going to become a reality. She was taking that first step and no one would stop her, not even Jack. She just had to make him see the sense of it, and about her da too. That was all there was to it.
She was almost running now, heading for the shooting gallery, for it was here that Simon Preston would be, or so Jack had said. She dodged to the right past Mr Burgess, whose waistcoat buttons stretched too tightly across his belly as always, and he hailed her. ‘By, young Evie, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Where’s your da then? Need to buy him a pint. Celebrate Jack’s win.’
She slowed but didn’t stop, turning and walking backwards as she answered him. ‘He’ll be over by the pigeons. They’re behind the beer tent, I think.’ Ah, so the lad had won but she knew he would.
Then she was flying on again through the crowds, slowing only as the shooting gallery came into sight. She patted her hat, touched her curls, straightened her bodice, hating her corset as always. She fluffed out her skirt, checked her gleaming boots and walked slowly, looking everywhere but at the gallery, letting her breathing calm, hoping Simon Preston was there but not daring to search for him. The spring evening was darkening as the clouds built. Would it rain? She hoped not.
‘Evie.’ Jack was heading towards her from the direction of the beer tent, shouldering his way through, tipping his cap in apology. His face was bruised, his eye swollen, his nose looked broken: there was blood leaking from it. He had been drinking, his gait was unsteady. He was being slapped on the back by those he passed. He was close enough now for her to smell the beer on his breath.
‘Evie, you should have put a bet on me.’
She said, ‘Are you all right? Our da did put a bet on. He believed in you. He always has. You should believe in him.’ His arm was round her. He pulled her to him and whispered, ‘I always used to.’
He oozed sweat. She drew back.
‘Evie,’ she heard again. Simon was ambling towards them from the shooting gallery. ‘Evie, Jack said you might be here.’
His red hair shone, his face was tanned in a way a pitman’s would never be. Gardening suited him, the daylight suited him. He was beautiful. Jack turned, staggering slightly. ‘Well, Si Preston, time you had a beer and swilled out the rotten taste of Easterleigh Hall.’ He slung his arm over Simon’s shoulders, winking at Evie. ‘Or are you going to have a few minutes with our Evie because you’re not let out much, lad, are you?’
Simon mock-punched Jack. ‘You won, man. Never in doubt. I saw the end, by, you were on fire.’
Jack shot a look at Evie. ‘Not to be wondered at, is it.’ His voice was harsh.
‘Jack,’ Evie warned, wanting to pull him away now, wanting to take him home before he flared again.
‘So, come on Evie, when do you start? Me da told me the news. Tomorrow, is it?’ Simon was grinning at her. ‘T’other one fell by the wayside, so they say. It’s the talk of the servants’ hall.’
Evie felt herself grow cold and then hot. She took hold of Jack’s arm. ‘I’m going to get him back to Mam, Simon. I’ll come and find you later.’ She ignored Simon’s look of confusion. Jack was swaying, a frown gathering. He let himself be led a yard or two, but then he pulled free and lurched back to Simon, gripping his shoulders. ‘When does she start what? Where? What servants’ hall?’
Simon flashed a look of dawning comprehension at Evie who shook her head, her mouth dry. She half raised her hand, but to no purpose. She couldn’t stop this now.
Jack shook Simon. ‘What the hell is going on around here?’
It seemed to Evie that the music was pounding more than ever, that the raucous shouts of a group of pitmen nearby were even louder. Groups were gathering into tight knots, some talking, some tossing coins and betting on the outcome. Some had fallen silent as they watched them. One man, Martin Dore, Jack’s marra, was walking unsteadily towards them, his face flushed, the drink in him. He had a glass in his hand, half full.
‘Jack, not here.’ Evie tugged him along, waving Martin away. People started to talk amongst themselves again, and always the music played. Jack hesitated and turned back to Simon. She dragged at his arm, speaking urgently. ‘I have another job, that’s all. I’m to be assistant cook for the Bramptons. I have a plan. I need Easterleigh Hall. I am going to use them. I want a training, for us. I’ll explain but not here. Come on.’
Simon moved to help her. She stopped him. ‘Howay, Simon. Let it be.’ She held up her hand to Martin too, who had started to approach again. He stopped, uncertain. It was like herding a load of sheep, for pity’s sake.
She thought she’d reached Jack because he let her lead him from the shooting range, well away, slipping through the throng. Some of the men they passed were smoking roll-ups, some of the children were eating toffee apples. Now the sweet smell of boiling sugar vied with suckling pig.
Jack let her slip her arm through his as they approached the swing boats but in the fading light he stopped, drew himself erect, staggered, pulled away and turned to her, stared and then spat full in her face. He wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘You too, my Evie. You as well. And I had to hear it from someone else.’ He staggered again. His nose was bleeding properly now. He wiped the blood away, but it continued to flow.
As he spoke again his teeth gleamed red. ‘At least Da had the courage to tell me to me face. You’re serving them, stuffing food in their gobs. You could go anywhere but you are working for that bastard. I don’t have a choice but you do. You could go anywhere for your . . . training.’ He was sneering.
She interrupted, ‘I can’t go anywhere else. I owe Miss Manton so much. I made a promise . . .’
He waved her silent, snatching off his cap, punching it into his other hand. ‘You know how I feel about them. First Da and now you. Don’t you understand, you’ve both tethered me? How am I going to fight the bosses now? If I do, you’ll lose your job, because they’ll know you’re a Forbes, and Da’ll lose his for the same reason and we’ll be out of the house.’ He drew breath, and now his voice was quiet and cold. ‘I hate you, Evie Forbes. I’m glad you’re going. You’ve got options, Da’s got options, I’ve got bugger all.’
His spittle was rolling down her cheek, sliding on to her jaw, and then her neck, her collar. She wiped it and out of habit checked for black phlegm. It was clear. Simon came running then, pushing between them, panting, ‘That’s enough, Jack.’ He seemed slight against Jack’s strength. ‘That’s more than enough, man. Go and sober up.’
Jack’s eyes were glazed and full of tears as he stared at her long and hard and then turned away, walking erect, not a stagger, not a sway. She called after him, ‘I’d already thought about my name, it’s all right. I used Anston. Da’s already explained to you what he will do when it comes to a strike. He’ll resign. You can go on with your union work.’
Jack didn’t break stride, just kept on walking, away from her. The crowds parted before him, and closed in his wake. Martin stumbled after him, catching him up, hooking an arm over his shoulder. Jack shrugged him off but Martin took no notice. They were marras. They worked the seam side by side. They belonged together, always. His arm went round Jack’s shoulders again and this time it stayed.
None in the crowd looked at either Jack or Evie. They gave them their privacy because they were their marras and neighbours. The music was still pounding, laughter was in the air.
She wanted to call, to run after him but she felt Simon’s arm around her shoulder, his sleeve wiping away the remaining spittle, his face close to hers, so close. She felt his breath as he said, ‘Leave him for now. I’ll follow and make sure he’s safe, and Martin too. They’re so drunk they’ll end up in a ditch if they’re not careful. I’ll try and talk to him. I’m sorry, I should have thought but don’t fret, none at Easton will give you away after this, pet. It will be Evie Anston, and most of the staff are from away and those that aren’t I’ll warn off.’
He was smiling, his blue eyes so kind, but Evie couldn’t think, not of anything. Not of the Hall, not her name, her mother’s maiden name, the hotel or anything any more. Jack had spat in her face, her beloved brother had not only spat in her face but had walked away from her, and she felt as though her heart was tearing apart inch by inch.