Bridie and the kitchen staff had worked all morning preparing the Sunday roasts. They had decided on a choice of rib of beef or chicken, but no goose. The usual apparent chaos had prevailed, but now that the five thousand were fed, and most of the clearing up was done, they could sit on the stools, sipping tea. Ver said, ‘You’re right, Evie, isn’t she, Bridie?’
Bridie and Susie looked at one another, puzzled. Ver slipped her cap from her blonde hair, pushing back a few strands, and explained, ‘You know, making goose a Christmas speciality only.’
Susie muttered, ‘Horrid greasy birds, anyway, and I hate plucking the great beggars.’
Ver laughed. ‘So, you have a supporter there, Evie.’
Evie pushed the biscuit plate towards Susie. ‘Then you may have two, because today you are my favourite.’
Bridie poured herself more tea. The furnace was gurgling on a high note, which meant it was getting hungry. ‘I think it’s a grand idea to use fowl and fish that we use at no other time of year for our Christmas menu. It’s one more thing that Harry can use to interest the newspapers. He’s found a reporter interested in food, and could tell him of our decision. I also think the reporter should be invited to sample new dishes and write it up in his column. I did tell him, and Ron, and Uncle Richard. Is that worth two biscuits too?’
Evie nodded, ‘Help yourself, because you, too, are my favourite today. The girl has been thinking, not just checking on the workmen every minute. By the way, Ver, have you noticed that there’s a rather handsome young carpenter helping to put up the all-weather exercise paddock?’
‘Oh, Mam,’ Bridie groaned, putting down her mug and heading for the coal bucket. His name was Derek. He was nineteen with a grand smile, and her mam had eyes like a hawk.
As she topped up the furnace, Ver called, ‘How are Derek’s lovely muscles getting on with the task, anyway?’
Bridie ignored her, and riddled the furnace loudly. Susie shouted over the noise, ‘They’re working hard. It’s wood, so they can just shove on with it. Sir Anthony’s right good, isn’t he, Evie, to stump up?’
Now that the conversation was on safer ground, Bridie left the furnace to its own devices and hurried to the scullery to wash her hands. Pearl, one of the scullery staff who lived in Easton, stepped to one side, her spectacles fogged by the steam. ‘Aye, Bridie pet,’ she said. ‘He’s a bit of a saint, our Sir Anthony is an’ all, and your da, because he’s shared the cost, I hear. Them poor wee lambs in Neave Wing’ll soon be able to ride through the worst of the weather. It’s not right their riding has to stop when there’s too much snow on the ground. It’ll be better for Prancer an’ all. His poor old bones must ache all winter. Look at it today – early March, and more snow. Only a bit, though.’
Bridie dried her hands on the towel hanging to the left of the sinks. ‘His bones are not that old,’ she snapped.
Her mother called from the kitchen. ‘Didn’t I see James down here when you were busy with the Yorkshire puddings?’
Bridie didn’t reply immediately, but touched Pearl’s shoulder. ‘Sorry to snap, but he really isn’t that old. You just have to look at him.’
‘Aye, lass.’ Pearl’s voice was gentle. She was the wife of a pitman and mother of two bairns, the oldest aged twelve. Bridie wondered if her husband was listening to the strike talk that was coming to the boil around the villages. What her Uncle Jack didn’t need right now was Fred, the communist rep at Lea End, putting pressure on the men of the area to come out. He was such a loud-mouthed idiot and always had been, even at school, her mam said.
Easton and Hawton were now in full employment with the most recent seam reopened, so Jonny Earnshaw’s dad would be bringing home money. But her Uncle Jack and Uncle Mart were looking more stressed as the days went by, and her da, as owner, was too. What were they doing about the co-op plan? Why didn’t they say anything? Her da said they needed anything like that set in stone, and it would take time.
Her mam called out again: ‘I see you changed into your jodhpurs when you checked on Prancer after lunch. I hope it’s bikes you’re riding with James, not Fanny and Prancer. I don’t like them being out in this. He’s an old boy, remember.’
Bridie sighed. Why was everyone obsessed with Prancer’s age?
Helen Jones, the housekeeper, came in from the old butler’s parlour, which had been renovated to provide a nice apartment for her after her husband’s death. Bridie left the scullery and settled on her stool again.
‘I have lists,’ Helen announced, and waited, with a grin on her face. Ver and Evie groaned, and everyone joined in as James skidded down the corridor from the green baize door end, whistling tunelessly.
‘Why on earth can’t the dratted boy whistle in tune?’ his mother shouted, so he could hear.
He entered. ‘Pearls before swine,’ he sighed, running his hand through his blonde hair, his blue eyes downcast. ‘I lay my whistling at your feet, and it is, I repeat, pearls before swine, Mother dear; and why are you sitting there with a face like a wet weekend, Bridie Brampton? It’s your afternoon off and we have bikes to ride, places to go, people to see.’
She laughed, happy now whenever she saw him, because he had shaken his head when she had asked him about his plans for Spain at Christmas, and said, ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t believe everything I say, you silly beggar.’
Her mam waved them away. ‘Off you go, don’t skid, don’t fall, don’t get cold, don’t . . .’
Bridie grabbed her coat, hat and scarf off the hooks in the boot hall and followed James up the steps to the garage yard. Her Aunt Ver called, ‘Where are you cycling?’ but neither of them answered.
They hurried along the yew hedge path, slipping in the inch or two of snow from time to time. They were able to run through the silver birches where, in the spring, primroses would create a carpet. The wind whistled through the branches; snow lay all around, crisp but not even, because it had drifted up against the trunks. Snow also lay on the north face of the thatch roof of the bothy, where their bikes were kept, but was sliding to the ground on the south side. Did that mean it was thawing? Well, Bridie thought, funny sort of thaw, as the wind cut her like a knife.
James heaved out his bike from amongst the others and called, ‘The roads will have been cleared of snow by the traffic, and Young Stan’s been along with sand and salt anyway, along the top end. Come on, we’ll be too late to hear what’s happening. We can heckle the communists and support the socialists. Surely the pitmen know they’ve got a fair deal?’
They cycled, head down, into the freezing wind, heading for the open air meeting at Old Bert’s Field, the one which usually held the Miners’ Gala and fête. Today, though, it was host to a miners’ strike meeting. The pitmen would hear their union reps talking for and against strike action. Bridie supposed their reasoning for an outdoor meeting was that they might get too many men to fit in the back hall of the Miners’ Club, but would many come out in this? James shouted back to her, as he powered ahead, ‘We’re late, they’ll have been at it a while already.’
‘Wonder if the Hawton fascists will be there?’
‘If we’ve heard about it, so have they,’ he panted.
What she meant was, will Tim be there? He had called in on Uncle Jack and Auntie Grace for a moment at Christmas, but had then rushed to Germany for a few days, and would be off there again at any minute, her mam had told her this morning.
All was calm as they arrived, but only just, to judge from the heckling. They left their bikes where they fell, just to the left of the field entrance, their wheels spinning, and ran, slipping and sliding towards the gathering of pitmen. Jeb, the well-respected moderate union rep at Auld Maud, was speaking on a temporary platform made up of wooden crates. They listened as he appealed for common sense, not agitation, which could only harm the Easton and Hawton mines and therefore the pitmen.
‘Aye, Lea End still has its problems, but their seams are not as good as ours, though Jack and Mart are working with the manager there. They’re trying to see if some of the flooded seams can be pumped out. Remember that our owner, Auberon Brampton, has listened to us; he is also talking to the Lea End owner. You fought alongside Auberon, Jack and Mart, or your fathers did. You trust them, so let’s leave them to it. Aye, it takes time, but anything else will destroy what we’ve built.’
The cheers were louder than the booing as Jeb continued, his voice rising and falling. The pitmen stood with their mufflers up round their ears, their caps pulled down, their breath billowing like steam, only to be swept away by the bitter east wind. The sky was iron-grey. Two birds flew over, Bridie saw. By, she bet they were cold. In the background, as always, was the seething slag heap, the winding gear, the smell of sulphur.
Several men beside her stamped and clapped their hands together to keep warm; others were squinting above their Woodbines, murmuring to one another. James whispered, ‘I bet they’d rather be back in the club, downing a pint.’
She grinned. James weaved his way towards the front, with Bridie in his wake, but increasingly the gap between them grew as the pitmen she passed caught her arm, asking her how she was, and what about her mam, and da? Telling her how much Tom Welsh had been helped by Prancer, how Jack and Gracie’s Stunted Tree convalescent and retirement houses were essential, how the children’s Christmas party at Easterleigh Hall had been appreciated, how cold it was, how she must keep her head down, there were some daft buggers expected today.
At last she caught up with James, who had stopped near the front, to the right. Some way in front of them, three men wearing red mufflers were shouting and baying at Jeb. One shook his head and spat.
‘They’re like a load of kids. Are they the commies?’ Bridie asked.
James shrugged, but a pitman near them called, ‘Why d’you think they’re wearing red, man? Course they’re bleedin’ Reds.’
Jeb was leaving the stage. He tried to shake hands with Fred, the communist rep from Lea End, who took his place. Fred brushed him aside. The commies near them cheered. Fred stood there with his hands on his hips. He was also wearing a red scarf. ‘Bosses,’ he bawled. ‘You ’eard him. Bosses, your old rep said. He needs to step down, ’e do. We still have bosses, when we should be the ones owning the bloody pits.’
There was a cheering from the three men, and from a few others dotted about the place. Now there was a press of men moving forward.
‘Get him off,’ a pitman near Bridie shouted, shaking his fist.
‘Let him speak,’ the pitman next to him bawled, throwing his stub to the ground. ‘Bloody bosses.’
James muttered in her ear, ‘I don’t recognise those men over there, do you? With the mufflers?’ He was pointing to a couple in the centre, and suddenly there were more men dragging red scarves from their pockets, strangers in the main. ‘Have a look over there.’ He nodded towards a couple of miners who yelled, ‘You tell, ’em, Fred.’
Fred was shouting, gesticulating, just like the fascists. Why did people have to be so extreme? Did they just like the sound of their own voices? She said, ‘Do they all wear scarves?’
A pitman in front turned round. ‘Aye, or else they’d forget who they were, Bridie lass. How’s your mam?’
A man behind them laughed, cupped his hands and bellowed, ‘You’re keeping us warm with your hot air, Freddy. Bet it’s a mite warmer here than Moscow. Have a cosy chat with Stalin, did ye, on your last trip, man?’
Fred retaliated, ‘There you are, then, lads. Listen to Andy over yonder, chatting to the owner’s lass.’ He was pointing now. ‘He’s a lapdog, a donkey led up garden path by a wee bairn.’
A pitman from way behind yelled, ‘Or a donkey led by bigger bloody donkeys by the names of Jack Forbes and Martin Dore.’
Fred took up the thread, ‘Not donkeys, but a pair of bloody dachshunds sitting in the lap of bloody Auberon Brampton, and what a name that is to play with.’
Bridie found her voice now, ‘That’s not fair. You know that’s not fair, Fred Benton. We’ve a grand safety record, good pay . . .’ But she was only one voice amongst many, so she pushed forward, wanting to get close, and tell him to his face.
James pulled her back. ‘Stay with me, don’t you dare go off.’
All around her people were arguing, as Fred ploughed on. The crowd was shifting, lurching this way and that. Bridie was knocked to one side. James grabbed her, holding her to him, shouting against the furore, ‘Stay with me. Damn it, Bridie. I shouldn’t have brought you down this far.’ He was shouting to be heard.
She shouted back, ‘You didn’t bring me, I came by myself, you daft beggar.’
The stewards were working their way through the crowd, calming it down. It grew quieter, and Fred continued, ‘Oh, yes, shake your fists at us, but when the workers take over you’ll be scampering along on our coat-tails, like pigs at a trough.’
‘Who’re you calling a pig?’ a man beside her roared. It was Anthony Selwood from Hawton, one of Uncle Mart’s pitmen, who had dressed as Father Christmas at the Easterleigh Hall party for the bairns. The yelling and shoving all around grew worse, and suddenly there was a push towards the stage. One steward fell, and was trampled. The others were swept along.
James’ grip tightened. ‘We’re leaving.’
They tried to force their way back, but the press of people was too great. James yelled, ‘We’ll get to the side.’ He took her hand, weaving his way through, but then there was another push, which became a surge, and on top of this the shouting grew louder, and then the yelling of men in pain, and men enraged. A group of men were carving their way across the front of the stage, heading for a group of Reds, while others, wearing red scarves, were barging the surge.
Someone yelled, ‘It’s the fascists.’
The pitmen near James and Bridie spun round. One grabbed James’ arm. ‘Follow us, there’s going to be heads bloodied this afternoon, man. We need to get her out.’
‘Leave the buggers to it, they can bash one another’s heads in,’ another yelled. ‘Waste of bloody time, anyway, listening to Fred’s rubbish.’
The pitmen were carving a path of their own, and James and Bridie tucked in behind, but then there was a surge from the left, and behind, and now more yelling, and the fascists were here, a mob of them, wielding their fists, knuckledusters and clubs, clashing with the communists and anyone else in their way. Bridie fell, James was knocked down. A pitman stepped on Bridie’s hand, his boots gouging the skin; her blood seeped into the scuffed snow. He pushed on past, dragging his young son. Behind them she saw a Blackshirt punching a pitman, who was giving as good as he got.
She scrambled to her feet and heard James shouting, ‘Bridie? Bridie, where the hell are you?’
She was buffeted on all sides. ‘Here,’ she almost screamed, her hand up high, though how would he see it in all of this? But he did, and now she saw him ducking and diving, and side-stepping his way back; he was charged then, by a fist-wielding pitman wearing a red muffler. James went down.
A fascist powered into the communist and they fought, stepping on James, kicking him out of the way. Bridie screamed as a boot just missed his skull, but caught his nose. It began to bleed. It was his blood on the snowy ground now. Another kick thudded into his legs.
Bridie forced her way through the heaving bodies. She powered into the back of the fascist before he could kick James again. He slipped and fell. The communist turned, barrelling into another brawl, leaving James on his knees, shaking his head; his blood sprayed through the air. She pulled at his arm. ‘James, come on, get up.’
The fascist was rising, and then he grinned at someone. A punch caught her on the ribs. She felt a sickening crunch, and fell, as James at last got to his feet. Bridie lay, winded, the pain in her ribs like nothing she’d known. She looked up as the two Blackshirts nodded at one another, their faces alight with excitement. One was Tim. It was he who had punched her.
James flung himself at him. ‘You hit her, Tim. You bastard, have you gone mad? And you shouldn’t wear a uniform. It’s outlawed. Outlawed, do you hear?’ He was punching ‘Outlawed. Outlawed.’ The other fascist hauled him off, throwing him down next to Bridie.
Bridie saw the excitement disappear from Tim’s face and confusion take its place, as she turned on her front and got to her knees, feeling as though she would vomit. Someone else ran past, knocking her flat again. She gasped at the pain of the jolt. She rose yet again, and now she was lifted to her feet and steadied by Tim, who gripped her face between his hands. ‘I didn’t know it was you, Bridie,’ he said.
She whispered, ‘But you knew it was someone. You shouldn’t wear your uniform in a public place. It’s been forbidden after your Cable Street march.’ She knew she was repeating James, but it kept going round her head and it kept her from crying. ‘You shouldn’t wear it. Do you hear me? You shouldn’t damn well wear it. And I don’t know who you are, any more.’
She tore from him, and now James was on his feet, and together they pushed through the crowd. Behind them they heard Tim call, ‘Damn you, James, you shouldn’t have brought her. She’s just a bairn, for God’s sake.’
They cycled home. The wind was at their back. It numbed the pain of her ribs, and seemed to have stopped James’ nosebleed.
When they reached the crossroads where she would turn right for Home Farm, and he left for Easterleigh Hall, James said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
‘For what, bonny lad? He was the one in the wrong, and I’d have gone on my own if you’d said no. He knows that, he’s trying to squirm out of it.’
‘I’ll cycle you back.’ He wouldn’t listen when she said no.
He cycled her across the yard to the back door. She said, ‘He’s a stranger.’
James nodded, but said nothing.
He cycled away, knowing that he had to take a stand after all. Democracies had to be supported, and protected. There was time here for the country to come to its senses, but for poor bloody Spain it was running out. Franco and the fascists were gaining victories. But he couldn’t go now and let Uncle Aub down. So he’d have to finish at Home Farm first, and then he’d be off. But he had to keep his mouth shut, or Bridie would come too, as she had said, and that couldn’t happen. She must be safe.