EVIE WAS LAYING up the table the next morning for Mrs Moore, whose hands were so puffy they looked like the butcher’s sausages. The servants’ breakfast was finished, the upstairs was under way. Evie murmured, ‘I’ll do theirs on my own and the lunches today, you just talk me through. No one will know. Millie will think you’re training me, and you will be, after all.’
Mrs Moore nodded, her face tense with pain. ‘It’s my back and knees too, lass. Some days they are just bad, really bad.’ Her eyes were full of unshed tears. Evie swallowed back her own. At last the aching in her body was easing and her headache just a niggle. Her voice was recovering, too. She reached for the sieves in the low cupboard. At least she had a family; Mrs Moore had no one. Aye, well, that wasn’t right. Mrs Moore had the Forbes family now and that was that.
But what good was that without a family home? Evie threw the sieves on to the table in a frenzy of helplessness. They slid to the edge. Mrs Moore grabbed and missed. They fell to the floor.
Millie was carrying back the empty porridge bowl from the servants’ hall as this happened. ‘Wrong side of the bed this morning, Evie?’ she enquired.
Mrs Moore just stared at Evie. ‘They’ll need a wash now. Take them into the scullery and come back with a smile on your face.’ She wasn’t cross, but concerned. Evie flushed with shame and did as she was told. The scullery was cold, Annie’s and Sarah’s hands were as raw as ever, their sleeves rolled up as far as their elbows. ‘Sorry pets, they slipped out of my hand.’
Annie just nodded. ‘A few more sieves is neither here nor there, I’m surprised a few more things don’t get thrown in this bloody place.’ They all laughed, even Mrs Moore, who had limped to the scullery door.
Millie was behind her, balancing the earthenware porridge bowl on her hip. ‘Can I help with breakfast tomorrow, Mrs Moore, when I’ve finished the porridge? When his Lordship’s in residence they have a lot, don’t they? I could be learning, you know.’
Mrs Moore glanced at Evie. ‘Aye, they do that, lass. And most of it goes in the waste for the pigs, save for the cold meats which he’s requested for breakfast this morning. He should have gone yesterday but here he is, still.’ The look on her face said it all. ‘Evie, take the tongue and ham back to the cool pantry when it comes down with James and Archie. The omelette and whiting will go in the swill bucket along with the kedgeree. Pigs don’t seem as fussy as humans.’
Lil hurtled through the kitchen, skidding to a halt behind Mrs Moore. ‘Why’s his Lordship still here? It makes her Ladyship fuss like the Queen when he’s around. I reckon she runs her fingers along the surfaces too. I’ve just had Mrs Green on my back. I need some tea leaves for the carpets, Evie.’
Evie slipped past Mrs Moore who hobbled back to her stool, pulling her recipe book towards her and Evie’s too. Lil took the tea leaves which were tipped daily into a special sieve suspended over a bucket. She tested them for dryness, waved at Evie and ran back out and up the staff stairs. She’d sprinkle tea leaves on the carpets to attract the dirt before sweeping up with the other maids while the family were having breakfast.
Mrs Moore looked at Evie. ‘Why are you murdering the knife cleaner this morning? What’s happened?’ Evie realised that she was stabbing a vegetable knife in and out of the knife cleaner, and couldn’t even remember walking to it. She shook herself but before she could answer she heard a knock at the kitchen door, heard it open and Simon call, ‘Flowers, ladies. Are we colour co-ordinated today, do you think? I’ve only got daffodils and tulips. Bit of a mixture.’
His voice was strong again. She could have run across the kitchen and hurled herself into his arms, but she sauntered across instead, standing by the table as he placed the basket of house flowers from the spring garden on the chest of drawers near the scullery. He said, ‘I’ll take them through to Mrs Green, shall I?’
Mrs Moore laughed. ‘Why wouldn’t you, lad? It’s what you always do, or are you after a cup of tea? You gardeners usually are. Pour the lad a cuppa, Evie. Seems he’s recovered from the chill too. Oh my.’ Her look was knowing.
Millie came into the kitchen and took over the laying up of the table.
Evie busied herself with the teapot, replenishing Mrs Moore’s cup and taking one to Simon, who had taken off his boots in the corridor rather than risk a clip round his ear from Mrs Moore. He smiled, his fingers looking huge around the cup handle. ‘Take a look at these beauties, Evie. What do you think of the ragged tulips? They’re the head gardener’s pet project.’ He was nodding towards the basket, his eyes more insistent than his voice. Puzzled, she looked at the basket and there, tucked between the daffodils and the tulips, was a piece of paper. ‘They’re lovely,’ she said, looking up at him. He nodded. ‘Touch them, they feel like satin.’
She reached forward and lifted the paper slightly, seeing Jack’s writing. She felt anxiety grip her. What had happened? Who was hurt? Hiding her movements, she slipped the note into her apron, nodding her thanks just as Mrs Green peered into the kitchen from the central passageway. She knocked on the window. ‘Bring those flowers at once before they wilt in that heat,’ she mouthed to Simon.
Simon handed back the empty cup. ‘Thanks for the tea, ladies. I will see you when I see you.’ He tiptoed to the door and followed Mrs Green to the cool flower room. He would have to return via the kitchen to collect his boots. ‘I’ll bring the flour from the pantry, shall I Mrs Moore?’ Evie asked.
‘Of course, Evie, or do you think you can make a luncheon soufflé without it, and why we have to have a soufflé at all I don’t know. By the time that Archie gets it up the stairs it will be as flat as a pancake. Bring suet as well, you can make suet puddings using the remains of the upstairs beef bourguignon. Chop the ham and add that too. Put in some kidneys as well, it will reinforce the gravy, but slice and sluice them first. We can use up the upstairs desserts but make a rice pudding as well, or some will go hungry.’
Evie was already in the pantry. She half closed the door and made a pretence of collecting the foodstuffs, but instead drew out the note and made herself read it, not wanting to, but knowing she must. Which one had been hurt? Was it Da or Timmie? It couldn’t have been Jack, for how could he have written?
For a moment she couldn’t understand what she was reading, and had to slow down, take a deep breath and read it again.
I need to see you. Miss Manton has been around with word from the parson. They have told me the news about our dream. We should have guessed, shouldn’t we? Anyway Miss Manton has a suggestion. We have said no but she says we can’t refuse until we have talked it over with you. Meet me at 3 at the bothy. Si says it’s easy to slip out then when you all have some time free. Jack Anston
On his return Simon fixed her with his eyes. She nodded. ‘I meet him at three in the bothy,’ she mouthed. ‘No one is hurt.’ He smiled, and she walked to the big pantry, close by him. Millie was in the servants’ hall, the scullery maids were in the scullery, and Mrs Moore was studying the menus for this evening. He reached out and held her hand. ‘I’ll try and be there,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve missed you. I wasn’t feeling well, I was moody. Forgive me.’
‘Always,’ she said, wanting to feel his arms around her. How would it be? The only men to hold her had been her da and brothers. She blushed. He left.
The morning passed much as always. Evie prepared stock for soup. She checked the menu and frowned at the mayonnaise for the cod. ‘A particular favourite of his Lordship,’ Mrs Moore muttered. ‘If the wind changes, Evie Anston, your face will stay like that.’ They both laughed.
‘I’ll make the mayonnaise. I think I can manage that,’ Mrs Moore said, setting herself more firmly on the stool and picking up an egg. She winced as she tried to separate the yolk from the white and the yolk broke on the shell. Evie said, ‘Let me.’
She called Millie over. ‘Clean the eggshells and put them in the stock please, and whisk it vigorously. You’ll see that the addition of eggshell will bring the scum to the surface. You can then spoon it off.’
She cracked another egg open, and tipped the shells from side to side until the albumen had separated from the yolk. She summoned Millie again. ‘Put these shells in too.’ She obeyed. ‘Separate the next egg yourself.’ Millie did so, frowning with concentration. ‘Excellent. Take the shell and whisk quickly now.’
Mrs Moore smiled at her, sipping her tea which was laced with gin. Evie wished she wouldn’t do this, for someone would notice, one day. ‘You’re a good teacher, Evie.’
‘That’s because you are.’ Evie stirred in the olive oil one drop at a time. What had Miss Manton said to her family? What? She stirred, watching the clock, seeing the hands crawl round, trying not to see Roger peering in through the window as he passed along the corridor.
She made mushroom soup while Millie prepared the vegetables and checked on the suet puddings that Evie had made. Mrs Moore talked Evie through the drying of mushrooms while the puddings simmered. Evie next passed the mushrooms through the wire sieve and then the hair sieve, which was like ramming a camel through the eye of a needle. Millie groaned, ‘I couldn’t do that.’
‘It’s all down to elbow grease, and you must do it if you want a good mushroom soup,’ Mrs Moore insisted.
At last it was the servants’ lunchtime. Evie barely tasted hers. Roger asked Mr Harvey if he didn’t think it was quite the best beef pudding he had tasted. Mr Harvey said, ‘On this occasion I do have to agree with Roger.’ Evie thought Mr Harvey looked as though he had sucked a lemon as he concurred with the valet.
Then luncheon was ready to be taken upstairs, with the soufflé looking encouraging as the footman took the tray. It didn’t last the distance, Archie told them when he returned with the empty dishes. Mrs Moore shook her head. ‘Empty plates tell their own story. It might have lost its bounce but not its flavour – just the right hint of cheese, Evie, clever girl.’
The fish was transported heavenwards, and still Evie watched the clock. Apple tart, fruit and cheese followed, then coffee. At last it was two thirty.
Mrs Moore retired to her room. Evie had already prepared the scones and fancies for the afternoon tea. Mr Auberon would not be down today but would be at the colliery with his father. Lady Veronica and Lady Brampton were visiting friends in Gosforn but would return to take tea at four in the drawing room.
Evie said to Millie, ‘I must have some fresh air, I’ll be back by quarter to four.’
She rushed from the kitchen, up the steps and out into the yard and there was Roger, lounging against the wall. He straightened. ‘Ah, I hoped you’d come.’
Behind him Simon appeared. He came forward, saying, ‘Roger, I wanted to talk to you about the duties of a valet. You must be pretty good to be entrusted with the care of Mr Auberon. I want to better myself. Can you help me, just for a moment?’
Roger hesitated, irritation clear, but then he smiled at Evie. ‘We’ll talk later,’ he said.
Over my dead body, she thought and slipped across the yard, smiling her gratitude at Simon. She hurried down the path to the side of the walled vegetable garden rather than through the stable yard to the path alongside the yew hedge, for with Roger on the loose it was as well to disguise her destination. She then cut along through the silver birches and primroses to the bothy, checking all the time that Roger had not slid away from Simon and followed.
Jack was in there, standing by her bike, smoking a Woodbine. She ran to him. ‘I was so afraid,’ she murmured. ‘I thought you were hurt.’ It was then she saw Miss Manton standing in the lee of the entrance, in shadow. She was also smoking. Evie was speechless. Miss Manton held up the cigarette. ‘A secret vice,’ she said. ‘I succumb under pressure and Jack was good enough to oblige.’
Evie checked outside again. No one was coming. There was just the blue sky which she had not noticed before, and the blossom on the cherry trees which intermingled with the silver birches and which she must have run past without noticing. She looked from one to the other. ‘What’s going on? I have to be back soon. Please, someone tell me.’
She stepped towards Jack but now her lovely strong brother was crying. She was scared. She went to him, but Miss Manton called, ‘Evie, we need to talk.’ She was stubbing out her cigarette beneath her boot.
‘Edward and I need an investment. We have money from the sale of the bakery and we have decided to buy the three houses from Froggett. Well, two actually. We intend to lend you enough to make up the shortfall from your savings so that you can buy the end one, the one with three bedrooms. It will need work, but the one you were thinking of is too small, the middle one is too big.’ Miss Manton was talking so quickly that she ran out of breath and stopped.
Evie tried to catch up with her words and when she did she could see why Jack was crying. They had been offered a chance that they couldn’t possibly accept. It was worse than no hope at all. Miss Manton had found the breath to speed on again, snatching off her modest felt hat as she did so, waving it at them both. Her auburn hair fell to her shoulders. Something had given way in her bun. ‘You gave us back Edward’s life. How can we accept that gift unless we give you one in return? How can you be cruel enough to expect us to live with that huge obligation? The loan will be interest-free. Your family call it charity, Evie, but can you see that it is not? It is a transaction. A life for a life.’
Jack shook his head, dragging his sleeve across his face, his voice hoarse from his fever, and aggravated by coal dust. He must have been on the backshift to be here now, and was exhausted. ‘But can’t you see, Miss Manton, it wasn’t just our gift, it was all the pitmen. They held the Lea End lot so your brother could be saved.’
It was what had been in Evie’s mind too. Miss Manton slapped her hat in her hand. ‘You and Timmie risked your lives, they did not, and how selfish you will be if you deprive the others of the use of the other two houses by continuing to refuse our proposal. Do you think the Bramptons will use the houses to help the miners, as we intend?’
Evie’s tears had stopped with Jack’s and now they both stared at her. She continued, ‘Now listen, Easton needs those houses and it’s time we did something. Edward and I realised that we had made a mistake yesterday evening not to inform you fully of our plan. I wanted you here, Evie, because you will lend your weight to the right decision. We propose to use the other two houses as retirement homes for the miners of Auld Maud, or emergency accommodation should they be evicted, or should strikes cause hardship, or somewhere to convalesce is needed. It is our duty as Christians and it makes us happy.’
For a moment no one said a word. On the hills the sheep were grazing, the gorse was brilliant in the sun. Miss Manton was explaining that the property purchase would break the Bramptons’ stranglehold, and prevent fear of the workhouse for so many. The decision was Jack and Evie’s. ‘If you say yes, then we go ahead. If you say no, then . . . I need a decision. This is undoubtedly blackmail and I make no apology for it. I know you need your sleep, Jack, before you go on at eight this evening but I fear if we leave it any longer we will be too late. Who knows how soon Mr Auberon will arrive at the Froggetts with a tempting offer? Please think of yourselves, the others and Edward, and accept.’
Jack was standing beside Evie now, his hand gripping hers. Evie watched the breeze rattle the blossom. A few petals drifted to the ground where the primroses grew. It was so beautiful, so very beautiful, which she hadn’t realised before. She had never felt so happy in her life. They were going to be safe. They were going to be free. They had to do it for the others, as well as themselves. He said, his voice so hoarse and weak she could hardly make out his words, ‘What do you think, pet? Can we say yes?’
She squeezed his hand, feeling the calluses, the ridged scars. ‘If we have the house we can repay the loan, of course we can. You’d feel safe when you have to speak out against the management. The old and sick or evicted can go to the two houses, not the workhouse.’ She stopped. ‘But how would that be funded, Miss Manton?’
Miss Manton laughed, moving into the doorway too. ‘Leave that problem to us, Evie. The world doesn’t rest on your shoulders alone, you know.’
Evie grinned, and shrugged. It truly didn’t, and nothing mattered if only they had a house. Nothing. She could continue with Mrs Moore and in just a few years they could set up a hotel. They’d be out of the pit in maybe . . . Well, maybe in just five years. Yes, she’d aim for 1914. Her heart soared with hope. She hugged her brother and whispered, ‘Yes, if we pay interest. Do you agree?’
‘Just what I was thinking, bonny lass.’ She knew that from his face, and his strength as he lifted her up high into the air. ‘Just what I was thinking.’
‘I’m taking this as a yes. You must go back to work, Evie. And we must hurry.’ Miss Manton was picking up her cigarette stub and Jack his. ‘We must beat Mr Auberon to the Froggetts.’
Jack lowered Evie to the ground, kissing her cheek, then asking, ‘Where are the Bramptons this afternoon?’
‘Archie said that they were off to Auld Maud. You know Mr Auberon’s coming to run the pit?’ Jack nodded. ‘Simon told me.’
‘Did you know they’re only to use reclaimed props, and the space between is to be greater? I heard it from Mr Auberon himself when he came to the kitchen for tea. He didn’t know I was listening, of course.’
Jack’s look was intense, then it cleared. ‘He won’t know how much space there is between the props and neither will Davies. Da will talk to the deputies and they’ll just have to be clever about it. We can’t do anything else. I’ll tell Jeb, don’t worry. And thanks, Evie, but be careful. I don’t want anyone to know you’re listening to all that’s being said.’
Miss Manton shook Jack’s arm. ‘Enough of this, we must go. Let’s get to the trap. Auberon could visit Mr Froggett on his way back from the pit.’
Evie ran back to the basement. Nothing was any trouble any more. If Roger was there, she’d leap right over him. He wasn’t, Simon was. She hurried into the corridor with him on her heels. Quickly she told him and he shook his head. ‘That’s wonderful. Just to have the two houses for the others will be such a gift. I worry about my da and mam when they’re old. I might have enough to look after them but you just never know, do you?’
He held both her hands and for a moment they paused, then Simon dropped her hands as Millie shot out of the kitchen. ‘Come on Evie, Mrs Moore is trying to grate the suet for small herb dumplings for upstairs and her hands are sore. She wants you, not me.’
Simon smiled. ‘I’ll bring those marrows, Evie, don’t worry. We’ve some stored.’
Millie was gone. He lifted her hand and kissed it. She paused, wanting his arms around her. He moved just a fraction closer, his eyes on hers, his arms lifting, but then Mrs Moore called, ‘Now, Evie, right now.’
Simon laughed and she slipped past him into the kitchen, hearing him clatter up the steps. Life was so good, even when grating suet.
Jack took the reins from Miss Manton at her request. She wanted another cigarette. He handed her his Woodbines and she cupped her hand against the wind as she lit one. ‘One for you?’
She leaned across, putting one in his mouth, and pressed her cigarette to his. He sucked, feeling strange. He’d never been with a woman who smoked, he’d never driven a trap, only the cart. He wasn’t used to sitting sideways to the way he was going, or sitting opposite his passenger. He wanted to break Sally into a gallop but he made do with a fast trot, while the wind burned down his cigarette at a rate of knots. They had to be in time. Until they had sealed the deal it was too painful to even think about it. Perhaps they should have said yes to Miss Manton yesterday. What if they were too late and the whelp Auberon was there first? If they got it his parents would be ecstatic, and Timmie . . . Well, Timmie would want another beer and Da might just let him have it. If they didn’t . . . No. Don’t even think that.
‘How much further?’ Miss Manton asked.
Jack brought himself back to the present and pointed ahead. ‘Froggett lives in the lee of that hill. It’s called the Stunted Tree. You can see why.’
There was a windswept hawthorn on the top. It was a natural hill, not a slag heap that oozed filth and heat, but one with grass and gorse, and sheep dotted here and there right up to the summit. Froggett’s farm ran up to the Bramptons’ land, and he would not allow anyone to survey his property because he didn’t want any of that bloody colliery rubbish on or under his land, he always said in the club.
The three houses were just within his land, a little spur that was an anomaly which ran almost up to the village. It was a salient, which Bastard Brampton had tried to acquire once he’d sunk the colliery. He’d tried again when he took over Easterleigh Hall. It was a thorn in his side. It threatened his total control of the miners and the village.
Miss Manton begged yet another cigarette. ‘Light one for me too, bonny lass,’ Jack said as he concentrated on the track, steering Sally away from a pothole. Miss Manton’s laugh made him realise what he’d said. ‘Sorry, Miss Manton.’
He took the lit cigarette from her and drew on it. The end was slightly damp from her lips. It would have been all right from Evie but Miss Manton was a stranger, and older what’s more. Hell, she must be quite thirty and had been Evie’s employer. He snatched a look at her. Her hand was shaking as she held the cigarette. ‘We’ve got to be in time,’ she said.
‘We will or we won’t be. Try and relax.’
‘How can you be so calm?’ Miss Manton drew deeply on the Woodbine, which was glowing in the wind. At the rate she was going she’d want another in a minute and they had to do him for the week, and by, it still seemed strange that she was smoking at all.
He shrugged. ‘If you worried about things you’d never get through the day in the mine. You have to do your best, keep alert and hope your luck’s in.’
‘You could pray,’ Miss Manton said, holding on to the handle of the trap as a wheel lurched into and out of the rut. The hawthorn hedges were almost in flower and were no longer neatly trimmed, which meant they were out of Brampton’s land and into Froggett’s. Jack knew the farmer didn’t cut back his hedges until May was out, and neither did he cast a clout. His vests were a national treasure, or not. On either side of the track yet more sheep grazed.
There were a few lambs, jumping straight up into the air. Jack loved to see that. He loved the fresh air, but if you were a pitman you were in the pit by eight in the morning or night and down for the next twelve hours, though the hewers worked shorter shifts. What would the Eight-Hour Act bring? Would overtime be paid, would piece rates go up to compensate for the shorter shifts? So many questions.
He was conscious that Miss Manton was staring at him, waiting for his answer, but his God was his own business and he called it luck, and it didn’t owe anything to church. It was something between himself and the other, whatever that other was.
‘You could also call me Grace, please, I‘d prefer it. Miss Manton makes me feel too old. I’ve asked Evie and if you did, she would. You should all call me that because I am your friend and you have done me the most immense favour.’
In the distance Jack could see the farmhouse. ‘He’ll be in the lambing shed. You were her employer first, so she won’t feel easy calling you anything but Miss Manton.’
Miss Manton laughed. ‘But I’m not now, so let’s get over this. Try it. Grace. Grace. Edward, Edward. Go on, it’s easy.’
It wasn’t, that was the thing, Jack thought, irritated. ‘Grace,’ he said in the end as they approached the first of the six gates, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the way they were going, not on her as she sat back and crossed her legs, her boot grazing his leg as she did so. If equality was what she wanted, then she was going to get it.
‘Grace, would you jump down and open the gate?’ he said as he turned to her. She looked at the gate, surprised, and then saw his grin and burst into peals of laughter. She hopped down and waited until he was through, then closed it. But then she called to him. ‘There’s rope under your seat. Pass it to me, please.’
Jack leaned down and felt beneath the seat. There were several coils. He brought one out and tossed it to her, puzzled. She tied the gate shut, creating knot after knot. ‘That should hold him for a bit.’
She ran to catch up, climbing into the trap. He held out his hand to pull her in. ‘Mine is the next gate,’ he said.
‘You’re absolutely right, it most certainly is.’ They were laughing and had almost forgotten the rush they were in. Almost. Jack shook the reins and Sally broke into a trot. Grace checked her watch. ‘If Auberon is at the mine he might leave early. Will he bring his father, because if so they could come in the Rolls-Royce, and be here in next to no time?’
Jack shook his head. ‘He wouldn’t risk the car on these tracks. They’ll come in a carriage or trap but whether Bastard . . .’ He stopped. ‘Brampton, I mean. Whether Brampton will come at all I’m not sure. He might just send his son. I gather he’s trying to toughen him up, or that’s the talk around the mine. Just send the little beggar down the pit, that’d toughen him up soon enough.’ He shook the reins again to chivvy Sally along. She flicked her tail.
Grace said, ‘She’s not used to this terrain, or a man handling her.’
Jack grinned to himself. He had thought she would think him a boy. He sat straighter. Then he said, ‘Perhaps he’s ahead of us. We’ve no way of knowing.’
Silence fell, and all they could do was to take it in turns to open and close the gates until they finally drew into Froggett’s yard. There was no horse there that could have belonged to Auberon, and relief caused them to look at one another and grin. He saw that she wasn’t really old, not at all. He’d just never looked at her before, not really looked. Her eyes were almost green and she had freckles, and that hair of hers was so rich and thick that a man’s hands could get caught up in it and not be in a hurry to be released. He shook his head. Was he mad?
Grace jumped down and stood uncertainly. Jack came round the trap and beckoned her towards the barn from which came the sound of sheep calling, and the higher pitch of lambs. He knocked hard on the barn door but there was no reply. He smiled at Grace. ‘Could you hear above that racket? We’ll go in.’
The lambs were penned in rows behind slatted wood and on straw. Froggett had said in the Working Men’s Club on Saturday that he liked to keep some of the ewes undercover in case there was late snow, because he was sick of losing the lambs in drifts. Jack had slapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘It’s April.’ The older men had shouted him down, waving their beer at him. ‘You never know until May, man.’
Grace stepped carefully over the scattered straw as they headed for Froggett, who was in the far pen. His dog, Star, lay in the passage between the parallel rows. Jack breathed in the scent of the straw, and the warmth of the animals. Star turned at the sound of their footsteps and bounded towards them, his tongue hanging out. Froggett saw the movement and turned, yelling, ‘Get ya back.’
Star obeyed instantly, slinking along and lying as before. Froggett shoved back his cap and stared from Grace to Jack. He stepped over the barrier and walked towards them, removing his cap. ‘Well, young Jack, surprised to see you out here, and how’s parson, missus?’
Jack explained about the houses and their wish to buy all three as Froggett ushered them out, and across the yard and into his kitchen. Mrs Froggett was preparing vegetables and a simmering kettle hissed on the range. She was more than plump, she was built like a bloody dreadnought, and the government should stop the naval race with Germany and just send the missus, or so Froggett would say with monotonous regularity after a few beers at the club; and every inch of her pure gold.
She showed no surprise at their arrival, or at Froggett’s explanation, but insisted they sit and eat. ‘Can’t talk business on an empty stomach, pet,’ she said, pointing Grace firmly to the chair at the head of the table. Grace removed her coat and hung it on the back of the carver, and placed her gloves on the table. Jack wondered if Mrs Froggett had ever had an empty stomach in her life. Froggett took the chair at the other end, and Jack turned his cap over and over in his hand, wondering where he should sit. Froggett turned to him. ‘Stop cluttering up the place, lad. Take a pew, and the parson’s getting on all right then, missus?’
Grace nodded and smiled, but then grew serious. ‘He’s recovering well, thank you Mr Froggett, but we needed to come and talk to you, quickly.’ Jack felt Mrs Froggett’s hands on his shoulders, pushing him towards the chair on Froggett’s right. On the dresser to his left was a photograph of Danny, their son. He had chosen to go in the pit when he was thirteen because his elder brother wanted to stay on the farm, and it wouldn’t support them all. Danny had been killed in a tub accident last year when he was trapping the doors. His body had been slung into a sack, then a cart and just dumped here on the kitchen floor by Davies’ special few. It was not unusual.
Jack made himself listen to Grace because he mustn’t think of Timmie trapping. Scones were placed before them, and rich yellow butter. The scones were still warm and the butter melted into the white soft dough and then did the same in his mouth. He wiped the crumbs from his lips and slurped his tea. Mrs Froggett laughed and pushed the plate towards him again. ‘I’ll put some together for the family. How’s young Timmie doing?’ Her eyes shadowed.
‘Belting,’ Jack said, trying not to see the quivering of her lips and the filling of her eyes, but how could you not? Mrs Froggett turned from him, and swept the vegetables that were scattered on the range side of the table into a large pan before seating herself. Grace had finished by asking for a price for the houses, her voice high-pitched with tension. Jack checked the clock on the wall near the range. Was Auberon on his way? Would the rope knots hold him up? By, she was a canny lass, this Grace Manton.
Froggett studied his hands and looked at Mrs Froggett. It was then that Jack said, ‘We need to tell you that the Bramptons want the houses too. It’s only fair. We think they’re on their way here any day now, and I bet they’ll top any price you ask from us.’
There was a silence. He knew that Grace was studying him, and saw Mrs Froggett was looking at her husband. Jack’s heart was beating in his throat because he might just have taken the future away, not only from his family, but the other miners. But he had had to say what he just did, for when the Bramptons came, and he knew they would, the Froggetts didn’t deserve to be cheated. Losing a son was more than cheat enough.
Grace nodded at Froggett and said, ‘Jack is quite right.’
Mrs Froggett pushed the scones towards Grace. ‘Aye, them Bramptons speak to us often about it. Eat up, pet, we need to think about this and the lambs need checking.’ The Froggetts rose and went out, leaving Grace and Jack looking at the scones, and then one another. She reached across and laid her hand on his arm. ‘You did well. I should have said something and didn’t. I’m ashamed.’
He looked at her hand: it was so pale and so soft. That would be because it did no work, but he couldn’t feel angry. She snatched back her hand and attacked a scone. He said, ‘No need to be ashamed. It’s just fair, that’s all.’
She was concentrating on the scone, heaping it with jam. Perhaps he’d try another too. He was spreading the jam when the kitchen door opened again and the Froggetts trooped back in, with Star. It must be a special occasion for the dog to be allowed in the house. He curled up in front of the range, on the proggy mat.
Froggett took a pencil and two slips of paper from the dresser, and wrote some figures. He showed one slip to Grace, and the other to Jack. On each was the Froggetts’ price. Jack could hardly stay still. The amount was very little more than they already had, so they would only require a very small loan.
Clearly Grace was as delighted, but said, her voice firm and serious, ‘This is more than reasonable and I must tell you that we would pay more, and don’t forget the Bramptons. They most certainly would. You have a son to consider.’
The Froggetts were standing at the end of the table. Mrs Froggett nodded. ‘Aye, you’re quite right lass, we do have a son to consider. We should have two. I want the Forbes in that end cottage and I want them to fight for better conditions in Auld Maud so fewer folk have to unwrap a sack from their son’s ruined body, in front of the range, staining their proggy mat, with not even an apology.’
At that moment Star stirred and barked, rushing out of the door and into the yard. A horse neighed. Froggett glanced out of the window. ‘Well, speak of the devil.’
Jack peered out. It was the whelp, dismounting from his horse. He carried a whip which he tucked under his arm as he stood looking at Grace’s trap. The day was darkening and the stunted tree was flattening in the wind. Auberon smoothed his fair hair and straightened his hacking jacket. He must have driven his trap home from the colliery, and had his groom saddle up straight away. There was a fair lather on the bay, who was tossing his head as Auberon tied him to a hitching post. The lad looked as though he’d walked into a door, or a fist or two. It would be the Bastard, of that Jack was sure.
He looked at the figures on the paper again. Perhaps Froggett would change his mind when actually faced with such power, such wealth. The farmer was at his side now, and spat in his hand. ‘All done, lad?’
Jack looked over his shoulder at Grace, who was by the table, peering out of the window on tiptoe. ‘Are you sure?’
Mrs Froggett nodded. ‘We’re more than happy, lad.’
Jack looked at Grace. ‘Are you happy, Grace? I’m buying mine, are you buying yours or should you ask the parson?’ Grace shook her head. ‘No, I answer for us both. We’re buying them. I’ll see the solicitor and you will have your money within the next two weeks, Mr and Mrs Froggett.’ Jack spat in his hand and he and Froggett shook. ‘That’s done then. It’s right canny,’ Froggett said.
He turned to Grace who looked uncertain for a moment, lifted her hand and seemed about to spit in it. Mrs Froggett laughed and shook her head. ‘Not you, Miss Manton.’ Mr Froggett held out his hand to Grace and they shook. ‘That’s you done too.’
Mrs Froggett was wrapping scones in greaseproof paper and tying the parcel with string.
The knock on the door came. ‘You can go out the back way, lass,’ said Froggett. Grace shook her head. ‘The trap is out in the yard and I’m not creeping around for anyone, are you Jack?’ Her eyes were challenging, which just went to show that she didn’t know him very well.
‘I never run away,’ he muttered. Froggett laughed. ‘Come on then, both of you. I’ll see you off and entertain myself with young Mr Auberon.’
He led the way out of the kitchen, into the stone-flagged corridor. Mrs Froggett kissed Jack. ‘Tell your mam I’m right happy she’s to have a home of her own, right happy I am. We’ll almost be neighbours.’ He hugged her, unable to stop himself. She was soft and smelled of baking, and he wondered what Evie was doing. Was she baking, or cooking for the whelp? What did it matter, she was learning, she was near Simon, she was happy and would be happier when she knew the news.
He stood back to allow Grace to leave before him, but she shook her head. ‘I think I’d rather you led, if you don’t mind. I confess to feeling a little nervous. I fear there might be a tantrum. What is the matter with his face, do you think?’
Froggett was opening the door and there was Mr Auberon, his hand raised to knock again. He removed his kid gloves and stretched out his hand. Froggett hesitated and then took it, but didn’t ask him in. He stood back against the wall as Jack and Grace reached the door. ‘I’ll see my solicitor tomorrow. We’ll get the sale of the houses signed up nice and tidy.’ Jack and Grace nodded to him, and to Auberon, who was standing as though struck by a heavy weight. He had paled and his expression was one of despair. For a moment Jack paused. The bruises on the lad’s face were old but still stark against his pallor, and his lip was split. Poor bugger.
Grace pushed him from behind and Jack still hesitated, but what could he say? He stepped past Auberon, pulling his cap down and nodding. Star pushed out with him and ran ahead, barking and jumping, looking as though he was smiling, with his tongue lolling out. Jack laughed. ‘He’s such a daft beggar.’
They hurried to the trap, for they must get back before darkness fell and his shift began. As he handed Grace into the trap Jack heard Auberon say, ‘But we can offer more, we’ll top anything.’
Froggett said something Jack didn’t hear as he helped Grace up into the trap, but what he did hear was Auberon saying, ‘Forbes, Jack Forbes, you mean?’
Auberon was waiting outside the library for his father’s summons. He had to tell him that he had failed and he knew the price he would pay, but all he could hear was Jack Forbes’ laugh and the words, ‘He’s such a daft beggar.’ How dare he? How dare that rabble-rouser call him a daft beggar.
It was only after he staggered up the stairs later, tasting blood, aching from the blows, that he wondered who had told Froggett of his intentions. Someone had, someone had just ruined his life. It was his father’s parting words that had burned the thought into his brain. ‘You need to keep your trap shut. Someone knew our plans, you complete and utter fool.’