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.’
He patted Jack as he passed. ‘Keep careful, lad.’
‘Always, Da.’ His da’s face was already black with dust, his teeth white even in the low light from the lamp. Jack’s would be the same. How the hell could a pitman offer someone like Grace anything, and why would she look at a lad, for that was what he was alongside her. She was around thirty and he coming up to twenty-three, but he never thought of age when he was with her.
His da’s footsteps were receding. He took the pick and worked with Martin until his da came again, bringing two more props, examining the roof and eating his bait with them where the roof was a bit higher, crunching coal dust as well as bread and dripping.
Down by the cage Timmie and Tony stopped work and sank on to their haunches. They had stripped off their shirts and were sweating in the heat, gulping down water from their tin bottles. It was warm but wet. They ate their bread and dripping and kept enough to feed Twilight, who was standing patiently a few yards from them. Mam had given Timmie four cakes, two each. He divvied them up.
‘Millie made them after our Evie went back to work yesterday. Our Evie taught her.’ Tony nodded as Twilight shifted his weight from foot to foot. Timmie scooped the last of the cake crumbs into his mouth, nodding towards the Galloway. ‘What d’you reckon he thought about being dragged away from the fields after the strike?’
Tony wiped his mouth, took a drink, leaned back his head and sighed. ‘A load of bollocks is what he thought.’
Timmie knew that he and Tony would be marras for ever. There was no one else he’d rather be working with. By, but he was a heathen all the same, since he’d not cross the road for a lead soldier. He jammed the stopper in his water bottle. ‘Up and at ’em, man,’ he said. ‘The tubs’ll be piling up.’
Bob eased himself up. ‘I’m away, lads. Take care now.’ He stooped very low, stumbling along the seam, listening, always listening to the roof, to the sides, and cursing as an outcrop caught his back. Another scab torn away. He groaned quietly, feeling the soreness of his knees, the stiffness in his thighs and back. Sometimes he thought he’d not be able to get up for a shift, but it wasn’t an option. Young Evie was getting so close now to being able to manage a hotel, so she said, and to hear Millie talk she was a right canny cook, his lass was. He felt the grin crease the dust on his face. She was right, they should start small. There was a sound. A crash, a whoosh of air. He turned, and stumbled back to the face.
There was a heap of coal between Jack and Martin. ‘It’s all right, Da, I was taking the last of the top coal and the wedge stuck fast. I took the pick to ease it and the whole bloody lot came down, right between the two of us. It’s our lucky day. It just got our bloody ankles, nothing too bad. Just a graze.’
Bob felt his heart beating too fast and too loud. ‘Then don’t take a bloody pick to it. Worm it out, use a bit of nous, for God’s sake.’
Jack grinned at his da. ‘Calm yourself, man. You’re not getting rid of us that easy, is he Mart?’ Bob could hear the shake in his son’s voice, and in Martin’s too as he replied, ‘Not unless he’s placed a charge and is waiting to blow it just as we pass.’
‘Clear that lot,’ Bob ordered, ‘and call in the putter. I’m off to see Timmie, at least he’s got a grain of sense about him.’
The other two laughed as he set off again, his nerves jangling. He stopped on the way to check the props at the other faces, and all along the seams. He had to draw out some props from a seam that was defunct, hauling them back quickly, gathering them as the roof sagged but held.
Timmie checked that his token was still strung inside the tub, because he didn’t want to work like this and find the weighman didn’t know it was his piece. He pushed the tub down the dark hot low seam towards the face, black sweat pouring from him. The cakes had been grand and he wondered again what it would be like living in a hotel, away from the village, from his marras, and a bit of him wanted to go, but most of him wanted to stay. Here was his life. Here, in this bastard of a pit with the dark, and the sounds of cursing, singing, tubs, picks, boots, and the charges his da set.
He slowed, wiped his forehead and spat into the dark at any rats lurking, then shoved hard again, his shoulders straining, his head lowered. Bastard seam, just too damn low for Twilight and Tony. There were other deputies, but his da was the best. He was the best at everything, well, next to Jack. ‘And by, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but near Jack,’ he said. He liked to hear his own voice, otherwise it was too dark, too creaky, too hot.
He was on the uphill now, and he got his back to the tub, shoving it, forcing his legs to brace against the weight. It was so damn dark but somehow your eyes learned to see. Sid and his marra were working this seam. Timmie liked Sid, he’d buy Timmie a beer at the club without a lecture, and let Timmie buy him one back.
The seam was levelling out and the roof was lifting. He stood straighter, then totally upright. The relief was immense but he knew it would drop down again soon, which it did. The rails ran right up to this face but you couldn’t get a pony along here, not in a million years. He’d hitch up with Tony on the way back but he’d be down the Fenton seam now, picking up some other tubs. The roof was bloody low again, but Sid was working the face in a high-roofed cavern and he’d be there soon. He shoved again and heard Sid calling, ‘Got a tortoise as a putter, have we lad? Hope you paint your toy soldiers quicker than this?’
Timmie shouted, ‘They’re not toys, they’re lead soldiers. Accurate, they are.’ The men laughed.
He helped Sid’s marra, Dave, to shovel in the coal as Sid continued to hew, his back bare in the heat, and bleeding. He’d knocked scabs off and had a cut. Well, who hadn’t?
‘Watch the descent, lad,’ Sid called as Timmie shoved the heavily laden tub away from the face. ‘Can’t have that last soldier we’ve all heard about being left unpainted.’
They all laughed, again.
He shoved the tub along, his back and shoulders aching even more under the strain, ducking down as the roof lowered, his arms spreadeagled and gripping the edge as he breathed in and tried to remember where the descent started. It wasn’t steep, but you could get a bit of a lick going if you didn’t pull back in time. He felt it then, the easing of weight, and it seemed too soon. He leaned back, pulling, but it wasn’t braking as it should, but then it caught. His thighs and arms were tight and felt as though they’d snap, daft beggar that he was. He breathed out hard with relief.
Then he heard his da calling, ‘Timmie lad, just coming to see all’s well.’ He was coming along the track. Timmie lifted his head, relaxed just a fraction and that was a mistake because the tub seemed to pull away. God, it had a life of its own. It was going down the slope and he threw himself backwards, digging in his heels, gripping the tub, harder and harder but it felt as though his hands were slipping and his father was there, somewhere in the dark ahead of him. The tub was gathering speed, quicker, quicker. His heels were skidding along within the tracks. He tried to hammer in his heels but he was moving too fast.
Timmie called, ‘Get off the track, Da. Get off the bloody track.’ He couldn’t hold the tub. His mind was racing. He let go, running alongside, racing it, beating it. He threw himself in front, digging in his legs, slowing it. ‘Get off the track, Da!’ he screamed but it was pushing him, shoving, it was too strong, he couldn’t hold it. Just couldn’t hold the bloody thing and now he could see his da, flattened against the wall as the tub was pushing him faster than his legs, pushing, pushing. He tried to shove back but he was going over. For God’s sake, he was going, his legs weren’t working, they were lagging. He must get away from the front, he must leap for the side, but it was pushing him, shoving him, down. Down. He just couldn’t stop it, and he saw his da leap out and on to the track, his hands outstretched.
‘Timmie!’ he heard him screaming, ‘Timmie, my lad.’
‘Da,’ he called but he knew it hadn’t left his throat because it was too late, his face was in the dust and there was no light. Just a thundering noise and a huge and massive pain which never seemed to stop.
Bob had reached his son after the tub had passed over him. He held him as the tub jolted off the rails and into the side, tumbling the coal over his legs while some fell down to the track, the tub crashing after it. ‘I need to check the props.’ He could hear his voice. ‘I should check the props, Timmie lad.’ He was howling, but he should check the props. He should listen to the roof, for the creaks and the groans and the hisses. He should, but all he could hear was his own howling and then there were hands on him, holding him, easing him to the side. Sid was shouting, ‘Get Jack, for God’s sake get Jack.’
Jack and Martin squirmed and writhed back from the face more quickly than they had ever moved in their lives, following Dave who had hollered, ‘Jack, you’re needed, now. It’s Timmie. It’s your da.’
Once they were able they crouched and ran and it didn’t matter that the outcrops tore at their backs and heads. They ducked and weaved past other hewers and putters, who dropped their tools and followed. They were out to the narrow tracks and the buzzer was going. Someone was dead. Not his someone. No, not his someone. ‘No, not my someone, not my someone,’ he was shouting, and Martin was shouting back, ‘Nay way, lad. They’re too canny.’
The men were gathering, but parted like the Red bloody Sea and it was his someone. It was his lovely someone lying there crushed between the rails, crushed like a bloody fly. He knelt, knowing that Timmie was dead, but he couldn’t be, he had his soldier to paint. He turned him over and there he was, his young, lovely Timmie who wasn’t lovely any more, who didn’t look like Timmie any more, whose mother must never ever see him like this.
Someone handed him some sacking. ‘Here lad, put this over him. We’ll bring up a tub and take him back.’ The man was shouting over this awful howling that Jack couldn’t understand. What was that noise? What was that awful awful noise? ‘Shut up, just shut up.’ He tried to stand but his legs gave way. Sid and Martin held him up. ‘Steady lad, it’s your da,’ Martin said.
Jack saw him now, by the side of the rails, sitting slumped against the wall. His mouth was open and he was howling, like a dog. Another deputy was there and Jack somehow found strength and ran to him. ‘Da, where’re you hurt?’ He gathered him in his arms, and he was wet with blood, sticky blood and Ted the deputy shook his head. ‘A broken leg, lad, that’s all. But he’s just seen his son killed and that’s your Timmie’s blood and he can’t stop the noise. You need to be strong for them all. For them all, you understand.’
Jack did, and he rocked his da until the wagon came along pulled by Twilight, driven by Tony who didn’t know. No one had told the lad. Why didn’t they tell him? Why? It was filling his head and that was what he said to his da. ‘Why didn’t they tell the lad? Why, Da, he was Timmie’s marra?’
It was then the howling ceased. Completely. He felt Da straighten his shoulders, and pull away. ‘Take care of the lad,’ Da told Sid, who had hold of Tony and wouldn’t let him go to Timmie. ‘The rest of you, get me to the cage. Get Timmie there too. It’s time we went home.’
But his da was taken to the infirmary, while Timmie was carried on the stretcher to the colliery cart. The manager stood next to it, his hat removed. Mr Auberon did not join them. Was he even at the pit? If he had come, Jack would have killed him. He had reinstated the cavil too late. Too damn late. Far, far too late. Timmie was wrapped in sacking but Jack removed it and laid his jacket over him, and his father’s jacket. The bonny lad deserved better than hessian.
Tony went to tell Evie. He’d lose his money for the time he spent. ‘What does that matter?’ he said, his throat tight and hurting, loneliness already in him, because his marra was gone and he hadn’t finished his soldiers. ‘He hasn’t finished them,’ he kept on saying as he started running.
Jack called after him, ‘Try and find Simon first. He should be with her.’ But it didn’t sound like Jack.
Evie was making pastry for the dessert flans, plum for one, apple for the other. Mrs Moore was resting. The servants were laughing around their table, some playing pontoon, some reading, some sleeping, some sewing. Most had waited up to let in the new year and they were still recovering. The new kitchenmaid, Dottie, was cleaning the fender. She was a worker and it was a welcome relief. She wasn’t from Easton but near Gosforn, and her da was a hewer. Dottie said, ‘By, you can get a good shine going on this, Evie.’
Lady Veronica had said she would be down for an early tea at three. Evie snatched a look at the clock. Heavens, in ten minutes. The cakes were ready, the end of the table prepared with a tablecloth. True to her word, Lady Veronica had not mentioned their discussion in any way and neither had Evie, but it was evident that after the initial awkwardness there was a more relaxed attitude between the two of them. Not a friendship, of course, but the occasional glance, especially after it was reported that though Emmeline Pankhurst had been imprisoned, Christabel had not returned to Britain to support her.
‘Do that later, Dottie. Get yourself off to the servants’ hall after you’ve put the stuff away, her Ladyship will be down any minute.’ Evie snatched another look at the servants’ hall and there was Roger, his head down over his newspaper. As though he could sense her he raised his head and stared, pure hatred in his face. Well, so be it, she didn’t love him either. She would never know what had been said by Lady Veronica, but whatever it was it had been enough.
Evie felt the draught from the kitchen door and looked up. It was Simon. She rushed to check the kettle. ‘Come on in, lad, but make it sharp. Lady Veronica will be taking tea here in a moment.’ She hurried back to the flan pastry, concentrating on that for it must be cleared away within two minutes. She called, ‘Were you born in a barn? Shut the door, then give yourself a quick warm in front of Dottie’s gleaming fender. You’re just in time with those apples, I was about to come searching for you. That store’s worked well this year.’
She heard Simon say, ‘Dottie, can you go and fetch Mrs Moore, quickly.’ There was something in his voice that she had dreaded. She held the rolling pin absolutely still. If she kept it still nothing would have happened. Absolutely still. Nothing will have happened at all. He was beside her now, reaching forward, trying to take her hands from the rolling pin. He mustn’t. Mustn’t. She slapped him away. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No.’ She shouted.
He wasn’t listening, but was taking the rolling pin from her because she was hitting at him. Hitting at her wonderful Simon, and his cheeks were wet, his eyes red, his lips trembling, and now Mrs Moore was here, pulling her down on to the stool. And Lady Veronica came then, looking from person to person. Mrs Moore was talking to her. ‘No,’ Evie said, and stood. ‘No,’ she repeated, beating Simon away.
It was a bloody circus and she still didn’t know who was hurt because no one was speaking and she was reaching for the rolling pin, again and again.
Then there was a voice calling, quite gently, but firmly. ‘Evie, I insist you sit down and sit still. Do you hear me? Sit still.’ It was Lady Veronica. The authority was absolute. She sat still and watched as Lady Veronica took a cup of tea which Mrs Moore must have just made. So the kettle had boiled? Yes, it must have. Lady Veronica would need a plate for her fancies, but nothing worked. Her hands stayed still. She should find a plate.
Lady Veronica was handing Simon a cup of tea. ‘You will drink this, Evie. You will drink this.’ Simon held the cup to her lips. It was bone china, for upstairs. She couldn’t drink from this. She shook her head. Mrs Moore said, ‘Drink it now.’ She drank. It was sweet. She hated sweet tea.
Lady Veronica said, ‘Simon, when you have finished you will share your news with her. I will leave you now. Mrs Moore, I’m sure you can manage with Dottie today because Evie will need to be elsewhere.’
Calmly she awaited the answer. Evie watched them both, and their faces were sad, indescribably sad. Everyone was so sad. Simon said, ‘Drink again.’
Mrs Moore said, ‘Of course, my Lady.’
‘Very well, I will come again in thirty minutes.’ She left.
The tea was sweet. She gagged. ‘Drink it.’ There was firmness in his voice. When the cup was half empty she shook her head, her eyes fixed on his. He nodded and still his lips trembled. ‘Da?’ she asked.
‘He’s in the infirmary. Broken leg.’
She sagged with relief. Only a broken leg, that was all, just a leg and so everything was all right, but it wasn’t. She knew that really, because Si was so sad, so terribly sad. She knew it because so was everyone else. Simon held her face, held it and drew close. She said, ‘Jack?’
‘Jack’s fine but Timmie’s dead.’ He said it quickly as though that would help. His arms were round her now, holding her tightly, stopping her from falling from the stool as though she had no bones in her body and everywhere was so dark, so quiet and dark.
Lady Veronica insisted that her trap should be used. Simon had been given leave to drive her and it was as though she was floating way up above the ground, just floating with bits of black overwhelming her now, then again, then again. Simon sang softly to her but she didn’t know what, all she knew was that he was here and she clung to him and would never let him go.
They drew up at the house. He lifted her down and she still wouldn’t let him go, but whispered, ‘You will never be a pitman, will you? You must always be safe. I can never lose you. I can never lose Jack. How can I bear to lose Timmie?’
He kissed her forehead, her cheeks. ‘You never will lose me. We’ll never lose one another.’ His arms were tight. He said nothing about Timmie.
In the house her mam was mashing tea, Grace was sitting with Millie, who was crying. When was she not? Jack was sitting at the kitchen table painting the remaining lead soldier. He didn’t look up, or speak except to say, ‘He didn’t suffer, Evie. Don’t you worry about that, pet. He didn’t suffer.’
Evie sat with him at the table. Her mam brought more tea, sweet. Why? It didn’t help. She drank it. Her mam said, ‘I don’t know why you’re doing that, Jack lad. Leave it now. Rest.’
Evie knew why. She always knew with Jack. ‘They need to be finished because Timmie will need them with him,’ she said, and then she went to the front room to her lovely boy. But he was closed in his coffin because he shouldn’t be seen, so how could he have felt nothing?
Jack watched Grace rise from his da’s chair at eight in the evening. ‘I’ll leave you now. Millie, can I help you up to bed? Perhaps the family need to be alone?’ she said.
Mam was sitting on the sofa with Millie. ‘She can stay here, not just now but later, and be family. We’ll need the laughter of a bairn.’ Her voice was quite steady, her tears were done for now, but then she’d had a lifetime of waiting for this to happen, they all had. Jack had finished the last fusilier. It would be dry by morning. He followed Grace to the front door, opened it, and held it while she passed close to him, and out into the dark and cold. He was calm, he was dead. He seemed strong, but that was expected, and tomorrow he’d be back in the pit, because he was a pitman and they still needed food on the table and savings for the hotel.
He followed her to the gate. She smelt as she always smelt, of lavender. He held the gate as she passed through, and followed her. She had brought her bicycle; would she be safe? The moon was full and lit the track. She mounted and pedalled slowly away. What if she fell? What if she was hit by one of the few automobiles, or a cart galloping, what if . . .
The tears were coming now, and they couldn’t be stopped and it didn’t matter because the family couldn’t hear and she was on her bike and neither could she, but then there was a clatter, and the sound of running, and then she was here with her arms around him. ‘Cry all you like, Jack Forbes. Cry for your lovely brother.’
Her arms were strong, and she was stroking his back, his hair, and he sank his head against the top of her head, her glorious hair, and let the tears run and run and his breath come in gulps, and he knew his body shuddered but he couldn’t stop, and all the time she stroked his head, his back, his hair. Slowly, slowly he quietened, his breath grew deep, and his tears finally ceased, but still they held one another and it was where he had wanted to be for so long, and where he wanted to stay for ever.
The retirement house door opened and a dog was called in. Jack withdrew, standing straight, looking deep into her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Never be sorry,’ Grace replied, her voice fierce, her cheeks wet with her own tears. ‘Never, bonny lad. I’m here whenever you need me.’
She was so close, so very close. He reached out and took her hand. He kissed the gloved palm. There was so much he wanted to say, but never could. Not to a woman like her.
He dropped her hand. She turned, then swung back and held her hand to his cheek. ‘You remember, if you ever need me, I will always be here.’
Grace picked up her bicycle which she’d let crash on to the track and cycled away. If she had stayed she would have said too much and what sort of a fool was she, to love a young lad. How could she have taken advantage of his grief, she was an embarrassment to herself, to women, and it must stop, this minute.
At Easterleigh Hall Lady Veronica had paced in the drive while Raisin and Currant chased one another around the cedar tree, waiting for Auberon. She didn’t have to wait long before he trotted up on Prancer, saluting her with his whip, calling, ‘I’m late for tea, but not too late I hope?’ He eased his boots from the stirrups and dismounted. She walked with him towards the stables, the gravel crunching beneath their feet. She said, ‘There’s no tea today.’
‘What?’ He turned, annoyed. ‘But I left deliberately. Why not?’
‘Evie has had to leave for a few hours, a death in the mine, and so the kitchen is short-staffed.’
They were in the stable yard and Auberon handed Prancer to a groom, but he himself slung the stirrups over the saddle, undid the girth and carried it to the tack room. Veronica followed and watched her brother’s thought processes grind painfully slowly round and round. He walked towards the front steps. ‘In Auld Maud? But there’s only been one death today and that was a Forbes. Yes, a couple of injuries, but only one death which makes it pretty much par for the course.’
She stopped as the dogs ran ahead and up the steps and then hesitated, turning back and running to her. She held Auberon back, wanting to talk to him out here, away from the servants’ ears and her stepmama. ‘So, tell me again just who was it who died today, Aub?’
He shifted uncomfortably at her side. ‘Timmie Forbes.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘So work it out.’
She reached down to stroke the dogs. He said, ‘You mean . . .’
‘Indeed I do. Evie was too scared to admit to being a Forbes as she felt she would lose her job, if she was taken on in the first place, with a name like that, a brother like Jack. You kept that boy in a poor place out of spite, and why? Because you could, Aub, and now he’s dead. I should have reminded you. That’s my fault. The cavil was reinstated too late.’ He was slapping his boots with his whip. She waited. He said, finally, ‘What have I done?’
She walked ahead. ‘Abused your power, and I have allowed it. We must learn from it and not let this boy’s death be wasted.’