‘Your mother’s been gone for hours,’ said Peter, coming into the house from the garden, where he had been working on their patch of land.
‘Maybe she went to chapel,’ said Owen, sitting despondently at the table, feeling lazy and moody that sultry afternoon.
‘Even so, it’s a long time past that now. Will you go into the woods and shout for her? Have a look around for her? I’ve got chores around here to finish.’
‘All right,’ said Owen, but felt his father was fussing a bit. Mother could look after herself. His father must have seen his reluctance, as he added, ‘She’s in a delicate condition. Better to be safe than sorry.’
What an idiot he’d been to forget that for a moment. ‘Course, yes. I’ll go. I’ll find her, dunna fret.’
As he left the house, Adam appeared, approaching from the path to town. He had been to talk with some other strikers about the latest news, that the Kings would close the yard tomorrow if the strike did not end. He’d asked Owen to go with him but Owen had said no, for once. He’d said he was tired. The truth was his mind was filled with confusion and he could not face a long conversation with Adam that morning about the strike or about anything really, especially not about Beatrice. Owen nodded at him and called out, ‘Going to look for Mother.’
Adam nodded back, his face clouding with some concern.
Owen hurried off. He took the path worn by years of working people’s feet taking their shortcut through the trees. Where had his mother gone for all this time? Perhaps it was just thinking time she wanted. Was it planning time? Or had she been to see someone about . . . things? She had the ability to read his mind from his face. She guessed about him and Beatrice at first glance; he saw it in that first look she gave him, when the girl had come in and smiled right at him.
He continued on, mulling over his thoughts. He raised his head and immediately saw something that shocked him so much he stopped walking and stood motionless. There, beneath a tree, was a figure. It was a woman hunched over, her lower back against the trunk. It was his mother. He broke into a clumsy run and sprinted up to her. He stopped dead for a moment, staring down at her form in shock. Was she breathing? He fell to his knees and said, ‘Mother! Mother!’ and stroked her hair.
A small groan came from her and he felt faint with gratitude.
‘Mother? Are you well?’
A longer groan came and she started to uncurl like a fern frond, stretching out her arms. He looked at her dress for any sign of injury or blood. But there was none. She opened up her eyes blearily and looked about, startled. Then she focused on him.
‘Oh, my son!’ she said and smiled. ‘Oh, I must’ve fallen asleep here.’
‘Oh, Mother! We didna know where you’d be. You’ve been gone hours. Why are you sleeping here?’
‘Hours, is it? Well, I must’ve needed the rest. Things lately . . . well, you know, they’ve been so busy at home. No rest, no peace. It’s been taxing to say the least.’
‘It has indeed. I’m just so glad to see you are all right and all is well,’ he said, nodding at her bump. She smiled at it and ran a hand over it.
‘Yes, all is well. Here, son, help me up. We shall take a leisurely stroll home and I shall rest on your arm like you were a proper gentleman.’
He did as she asked. It was good to feel her lean on him. She worked so hard and had always been his support. It felt right that he should be the one to do the same for her now. The shock of seeing her on the ground like that and fearing the worst had brought a tear to his eye, reminding him how much he loved and needed her. And with a pang, how much he regretted keeping the truth from her. He would not hide from her any longer. He owed her that and much more.
‘Mother, can I speak to you about summat, in confidence?’
‘Course you can, son. About any old thing. You know that.’
‘It’s about Beatrice Ashford,’ he said and glanced round to gauge her reaction.
‘I thought it might be,’ she replied with a rueful smile. He took courage from that. At least it was not anger. ‘I could see you two were singing out of the same book. A mother knows these things.’
‘It started as we said, with her wanting a pie. Then Adam said it was useful and I should cultivate it. I did so and would report back to Adam anything I’d learnt. But then I . . . I started to . . .’ Here he hesitated, not knowing how to frame it, how to explain such emotions to his mother, when he could barely articulate them to himself.
‘Tell me how she made you feel,’ she said, reading his mind, as ever.
He thought for a moment, picturing her standing before the old brickmaster’s house, a shaft of sunlight beaming down on her through a gap in the treetops. ‘Like the bright centre of the world,’ he said. ‘I knew she felt it too. We knew it was madness. But we couldna help ourselves. We . . . we have fallen in love. Completely and totally in love.’
They walked in silence for a time, listening to the sounds of the woodland around them and the dull crunch of their steps on the leaf litter underfoot.
‘What are your plans for this girl?’ she said.
He frowned and his head ached again. The thought of her had acted as a momentary painkiller, but the troubles ahead brought the soreness back with a thump. ‘We anna thought that far ahead. I suppose we’ve been living moment to moment, if you know what I mean, Mother.’
‘I do know exactly what you mean,’ she said and sighed. ‘As hard as it is to believe, I was once a young girl in love.’ He imagined his parents as young folk and smiled at the thought of them courting.
‘Owen, I have some tales to tell you now and you must listen well. It concerns our past, all of us. Me, your father, your girl and her mother. When you’ve heard it, you will see that whatever future you have half imagined for you and this girl . . . well, suffice to say, son, you will feel differently than you do at this moment. I am sorry for it, but it must be done.’
He expected a tale of woe about the prison, the Kings and their dastardly ways. He prepared himself to give a speech in defence of letting bygones be bygones, of mending the old feud. He would explain that the strike would come to an end soon and Beatrice had done all she could to help their side, that she was the bright future of the Kings and one day, who knew, perhaps society would accept their love and they would forge a new path together. But nothing had prepared him for what his mother was about to say. She stopped walking and looked away from him, staring down the incline they walked beside, down into the edges of the river, which lapped languidly against its banks.
‘My first love was Beatrice’s father, the artist Jake Ashford. He promised himself to me, said I should wait for him until he had made his fortune. I loved him with all of my heart, with my very soul. I imagined a great future for us, him painting his great scenes of industry, me a clerical worker in a fine office in Shrewsbury, maybe a lawyer’s office or something illustrious like that. My future stretched before me like a shining path, just waiting for me to take my first step on it, arm in arm with Jake. But Cyril King had his eye on me, wanted me for himself. He found out about Jake and was madly jealous. He attacked me here, in these woods, trying to force himself upon me. He wanted to marry me and I rejected him most forcefully. I told him I’d rather die. He took me at my word. In revenge, he made it seem I had stolen money and I was sent to prison, as you know. Margaret King, Beatrice’s mother, was my best friend. We had been secret friends for years. She came to the prison and swore she’d help me. The next time I saw her there, she told me my father was dead in an accident. But I knew he was killed by Ralph King cutting corners with the safety at the furnace to save money. My father was the dearest man in all the world to me. His death nearly ended me.’
His mother’s head drooped forwards and she covered her face with her hands. He took a step towards her, but she lifted it again, wiping her eyes and shaking off her emotion, determined to continue.
‘And that wasn’t all Margaret delivered to me. She said too to forget Jake Ashford, that he would not be visiting me in gaol and that it would be better for everyone if I put him out of mind. I guessed why – she wanted him herself. I cursed her and her forsaken family. Then she betrayed me with Jake and they ran away together to the continent. Eventually, I was released from that hell-hole and made my way home, very ill and weak.’ She paused, thinking about what she had just learnt from Margaret. But that was neither here nor there in terms of what Owen needed to know. Anny took a breath and continued, ‘You may think you know that part of the story, but you do not know the details, the truth of what it was to live through that terrible time. I nearly died in that place. It was the site of the lowest degradation and brutality you can only imagine. It broke my body and it nearly broke my mind. Your father and his mother saved me. They nursed me back to health, in my body and in my mind. We married soon after. Then you came along. You know the rest, because you lived it. My life began again when yours did. I became a whole person again when you came into the world.’
He watched her staring into the flowing water below. Every ounce of devotion he owed to her surged in his chest and threatened to burst its banks. ‘I didna know . . .’ he began, clenching his fists with a rage that was brewing there too.
She turned to him, her face pale and eyes wide and white. ‘I did not want to taint you with it. I wanted to escape those dark days of my youth and start afresh with you, my boy. You were all new, my perfect, pure, untouched, unblemished baby. I would not let the memory of the Kings’ betrayal stain our life together. But the poison they poured into me flowed in my blood forever more. Surely, it slowed to a trickle as life went on and our happiness grew and grew, despite our poverty. But when the Kings took over the brickworks, the venom resurfaced in me and would not let me breathe freely. I felt choked by it more and more each day. Again, the Kings were directing my destiny and those of the people I loved. It was unbearable to me. Now you know the cause of many an argument with your dear father. He understood my hatred of the Kings, of course he did. He knew how I had been wronged. He saved me and made me anew. I loved him for that and for everything else that is in him. He is the great love of my life.’
His mother took a step forward and held out her hands to him. He took them and she squeezed them tightly, looking searchingly into his eyes.
‘Do you understand now what I said to you yesterday? That if you love that girl, it will kill me?’
Her eyes were brimming, her face looked years older, drawn and thin. How could a son tell that face, those eyes, that he would willingly break her heart? Maybe another son could, another man, a lesser one. But Owen Malone – with his soft poetic heart he inherited from his father – could not.
When they returned to the cottage, Owen’s father and Adam were waiting for them at the door, puffing on their clay pipes. Peter’s face relaxed the moment he saw them. He popped his pipe in the corner of his mouth and came over to Anny, putting his arm around her, asking after her. She wouldn’t have any fuss and went straight inside, the others following. Sufficient explanations were given and his mother was helped to sit at the table and tea was made and bread was sliced and spread with butter and jam, to put some colour back in his mother’s cheeks. Martha was up and about, looking wan but much improved on the previous day. Baby Hettie slept on her arm and they all drank the tea down and were comfortable together, for the first time in a while. But inside, Owen’s mind was aflame with a cauldron of emotions, new truths and old lies thickening the unholy brew. It was a great effort of will just to appear normal.
‘We’ve been talking since you’ve been gone, Anny,’ said Owen’s father. ‘Things need to change around these parts.’
‘Oh, not more change, Peter,’ sighed Anny with a smile. ‘My head is spinning already.’
‘Change for the better this time,’ he replied. ‘You’ve been doing far too much around here and taking too much onto yerself. You need more rest, with the babby on the way. Owen and I will be helping you more around the place. And Adam has summat to say on the matter too.’
All eyes were on Adam, who nursed a mug of tea in his large scarred hands and stared at the table top.
‘I have decided that the strike must come to an end.’
The news fell upon silence. Nobody gasped, nobody said a word.
Adam went on, ‘With this news come from the King girl that the works is to be closed tomorrow otherwise, I’ve been talking to the others and folk are telling me they canna afford to lose the works altogether. There is no appetite left amongst the workers for resistance. What’s more, I’ve heard today that two more brickworks have gone back to work, Cooper and Colley’s works and Heighway brick and tile too. That was the last straw for most folk. Most everyone I spoke with said the same, that it was time to go back. For myself, with a wife and child to support, I have no choice. And we’ve lived under your roof and relied on your kindness for too long.’
Anny spoke up, ‘You know you’re welcome as long as you need it, Adam.’
‘I know that. But you need your home and your rest, and now the babby is here, we need our space too. We shall go back to our house, still empty I understand it, and take the old hag on her word and have our home again.’
Owen saw Martha nodding thoughtfully at this.
Adam continued, ‘We must take the cut in pay and go back to work. I have called a meeting for four o’clock this afternoon, then I shall walk up to the big house this evening and tell ’em myself.’
A shocked silence followed, interrupted only by the drowsy grizzling of baby Hettie, unaware of the gravity of the situation. Owen imagined that each person around the table had their own differing reactions to the news, but nobody had the will to voice them or the vigour to dispute. The whole thing had staggered on for too long, now dropping by the wayside in a defeated heap. There was dejection in the room, but also a sense of relief. The strike was over and they had lost. Back to work it was, on far worse terms than before, but at least the strike was over.
The silence was broken by a small sound that came from Adam’s throat. A stifled sob, that brought his fist up to his mouth. Owen could see that Adam was fighting back emotion, determined not to let it overcome him. He cleared his throat, sat up straight and set his face firm. ‘It has been a fight for good, a fight worth fighting. They know now we are united, that we will speak for ourselves and not be trod upon like creatures of the dust. I may have failed this time . . .’
Adam stopped, swallowing down his feelings.
‘That inna true,’ said Owen firmly. ‘You anna failed anyone.’
‘Yes, I bloody have,’ snapped Adam, then contained himself once more. ‘But despite my failings, our cause was righteous. And I say, let this be the first of many, the stirrings of working people against the tyranny of masters. We have lost this battle, but the war will be long. One day, working people will be heard.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Peter. The two men looked at each other, so often at odds these past weeks, and a passing understanding was exchanged and they nodded.
*
Owen went with Adam to the union meeting. There were far fewer people there than previous ones and a similar air of defeat. A few mouthy ones grumbled against it, but Owen noted that everyone looked simply exhausted with it all, a mirror of those around his own kitchen table. People shuffled away after, saying little. Such was the lot of the working man and woman, their rounded shoulders seemed to express. There had been light and hope and much talking and jostling in their community for a while, but now it was time to return to real life. Adam had gone off to Southover to tell them the news, insisting he do it alone. Owen guessed he wanted no witnesses to his shame.
The next day they were all up early, his mother preparing as hearty a meal as she could for the three men, with the meagre provisions they had left, some eggs from the chickens out back, some porridge with milk from a neighbour’s goat. There would be money coming in at the end of the week, less than ever, but at least it would be something and they could afford to get some meat. His mother said that she and Martha would pack up their things and get some boys to help them take their bits and pieces back to their old house. His father and Adam said they’d do the heavy bits when they came home. The three of them trudged the walk to work in silence, heavy feet and heavy hearts.
As they approached the yard, Owen watched as their fellow brickies traipsed in beside them, as if the whole place was a weak magnet, drawing them in slowly but surely, unwilling and gloomy. Clothes were more ragged and filthy than ever, the children shoeless of course, as they ever were. The adults looked similarly dishevelled. There was a meeting with Troon and everyone gathered to listen to his instructions. Owen could see that there were far fewer workers than before the strike. Some had moved away, looking for other work in neighbouring counties. Some had gone into the workhouse. Some had starved, some had succumbed to illness. It was a ragged congregation, appearing more fit for admittance to a hospital than a long day’s labour.
Troon was assigning new roles for many, now that the workforce was depleted. As well as being his father’s assistant brickburner, Owen would now need to help out at the pug mill, checking the equipment and keeping it running smoothly, as well as loading the clay into the machine, where the wheels and knives inside it sliced and mixed it to produce the right consistency. It was a step down for him to be doing that job and also extra work, on top of his existing duties at the kilns. Troon said that now pay had gone down by thruppence per thousand bricks, everyone would want to work harder to make up the shortfall, as well as make back what they’d lost during the strike. So, there it was, more work, for less pay, for longer hours. The faces of everyone around him registered the miserable truth of their situation. There they were again, worse off than ever. There were a few daggered looks thrown at Adam, who kept his head down. He had been their hero and saviour once. But people always looked for someone to blame, when things were wrecked and ruined.
Days passed in echoes of each other, long, shattering days of toil, lacking definition between one and the next. Owen worked and slept, worked and slept. He dreamt of Beatrice. He would wake up shaking and sweating, as if weaning himself off some dreadful addiction. He developed a cough and his mother wrapped warm poultices about his throat each night, which he threw off in the July heat. At the end of the first week back, everyone arrived again at work with eager anticipation of the pay that would be handed out later, this promise buoying up their flagging vitality, helping them to push through this last day before their one day of rest on the morrow.
Owen left his father at the kiln to check on proceedings at the pug mill. It was a huge contraption, towering above them, a barrel-shaped machine topped with a wide horizontal wheel which had a diameter about the length of a tall man. This was driven by a cog wheel that in turn was driven by a steam engine beyond. The hopper was below the wheel, where the clay was fed in, made malleable by the rotating knives inside. At the base, the reduced clay came out, ready to be taken by children over to the moulding tables. An engineer called Tinsley was in charge there, a bully of a man who liked to give the young‘uns a clip round the ear for little or no excuse. Owen hated him and so was even more depressed to have been assigned to the pug mill. Brain was working in here now too. Good old Brain, just turned thirteen and taller by far than Tinsley, who was a wiry little man, bitterly resenting anyone that towered over him and punishing them for it. But Brain was immune to such hostility. He looked cheerful and happy to be back, full of gusto, despite his family nearly ending up in the workhouse these past weeks, saved only by a few pennies from the union fund and the ending of the strike. He seemed more like a jovial dog than ever, his hair long at the back, stiff and straggly with sweat and clay. Owen thought the pug mill was not the best place for Brain, being of such a simple turn, that labouring at digging up clay suited his mind better than all this machinery. But he was very glad to have a friendly face around.
Brain turned when he saw Owen coming in and called over, ‘Ow bist, Owen? Ow bist, me owd butty? Pay day today!’
‘Shut yer trap, yer drearing great lump,’ snarled Tinsley. ‘Oil that pinion wheel like I told yer. No time for socialisationing.’ After Tinsley spat out that last mouthful of a word, annoyed that Owen had witnessed it, he stomped away, pushing Owen’s shoulder roughly with his own as he passed. Owen was knocked off one foot and swayed to steady himself, turning to Brain to have a laugh with him about miserable old Tinsley.
In the moment he looked at Brain, reaching up under the moving wheel to oil it, Owen shouted, ‘No, Brain! From above!’
But there was no time for Brain to listen, to hear that it was mortally dangerous to oil the wheel from below. There was no time because Brain’s hands were already caught in the cogs and in one terrifyingly swift moment, his whole frame was jerked upwards, pulled in up to the armpits, his arms mangled in the wheel and his body thrown against the wall behind the machine. The force of it jammed him between the wall and the end of the pinion shaft.
Owen ran to him, screaming, ‘Stop the machine!’ The wheel was blocked, straining to go about its circular journey. Brain’s face was white as a china plate, a thin line of bright red blood trickling from the side of his mouth. He uttered a high, wheezy whine. Thank God, he was still alive. Owen kicked over a barrow and jumped atop it, so that he could stand face to face with him.
‘Brain,’ whispered Owen, his hand hovering by Brain’s face, afraid to touch it. ‘Brain, we’re gonna get yer out.’ He looked wildly about the equipment, trying to fathom how to extricate Brain from the mess of it.
‘Owen,’ he murmured. His eyes were closed, tight shut, as if he were hiding from something. His lips were open, a row of crooked teeth visible, lined with red.
‘Dunna speak,’ said Owen.
‘Owen, me owd mate,’ Brain whispered, a bubble of blood appearing on his lower lip then bursting.
‘Hush, Brain. We’ll soon have yer out.’
‘I didna know.’
Owen stroked his cheek now with the tips of two fingers. ‘I know, Brain. I know. It inna your doing. It inna your fault. Hush, hush now.’ Then, he jerked his head round and shouted, his voice cracking, ‘Turn that bastard machine off!’
The wheels at once loosened and Owen grasped at Brain’s back, afraid he would fall. Men were running in, swearing and gasping. Two came up behind Brain and took his weight. Owen felt a hand patting him firmly on his shoulder but could not turn his head from Brain, whose eyes were beginning to open a sliver, at the touch of men at his back.
‘Owen,’ said a familiar voice and he twisted his head to see his father’s face. ‘Come down, lad. They need to move the wheel a bit to free him. Come down out the way.’
But Owen could not move, frozen there. Peter took his shoulders firmly and guided him down off the barrow. Owen felt his legs give away, his arms flailing. Then his father caught him, saying, ‘Now then, son’, and dragged him up to lean against him, steering him away from the mill and out into the fresher air. Owen felt his feet stumbling beneath him, glad of the strength of his father’s arms about him.
‘He didna know what he were doing,’ he cried. ‘Tinsley never showed him properly. He’d never worked the pug mill before. He shouldna been in there at all.’
His father was hushing him now, as he himself had hushed Brain moments before. Owen suddenly felt a fool, for collapsing like that, when Brain was the one who was injured, not him. He pushed his father away and stood up on shaking legs, forcing himself to stand tall. He turned from him and marched back to the scene of the accident, to find that they had managed to get Brain out, who was now lying on the ground, someone’s coat over his front, covering up his grievous injuries. Troon was there now and Adam. They were talking about getting the doctor and a boy was sent off running.
Troon said, ‘It’s hopeless, though. Look at him, mon.’
‘Doctor can sew him up. He can . . . he can . . .’ Adam said, gesturing vaguely towards Brain, ‘Take off the arms. He’ll be a cripple but . . .’ His voice trailed off.
Owen looked down at Brain and saw Royce was there now, sitting on his haunches, his arms resting on his knees. He was staring grimly at his friend. He reached out a hand, then withdrew it, his hands joining together, wringing shakily. He dropped down to his knees and sat there, watching his friend’s grey face. Owen stood observing them both, his arms hanging loosely by his side, his ears registering sounds around him of complaint and pity, the cries of women weeping and children sobbing, the voice of Tinsley defending himself and men arguing with him. Everyone knew that no amount of talk would bring Brain back and no doctor could save him now. Time washed over Owen, irrelevant, meaningless, as unstoppable and uncaring as a flowing river over a drowning man’s head. All he could do was stand there and watch Brain die.