Authors: Yelena Kopylova
remembers that
his da was a sailor and gets the urge to do what he did and go ofi? What about it then?”
And her
daughter’s reply to this stilled any remark she would have made if she could have thought of one, for
Mary Ellen said quite quietly, “We’ve talked about that, and he said it might happen and it might never
happen, time will tell, it’s all in the wind.”
“What you want to draw my face for when there’s better looking things even in the
pigsty, I don’t
know.”
“Keep yourself still, and stop twitching your nose.”
“I’m sweatin’, it’s running out of me hair.”
Kate slanted her eyes to where the boy was sitting, a slate held on his knee, a chalk
poised over it, and
there was love and admiration in her glance, for if this lad had been born other own flesh, she couldn’t
have loved him more dearly. Looking back now, she hardly remembered her own son;
her life seemed to have begun the day she saw this boy’s arm hanging from the quarry
wall. And she
had loved him from that moment.
Sometimes she was surprised that she hadn’t carried him in her womb, so deep was her
feeling for him,
and so close were they together in all ways. She only wished one thing, that fortunes were different, that
he hadn’t to work down in that stinking smelt mill, for God knew, even with their
newfangled tunnels
leading to chimneys on the | hill to take away the gases, life was limited if you spent |
twelve hours a day,
six days a week, over there. I Her eyes now slid to the other occupant of the room. She had feelings for
him too, but they were mostly of pity fbrj he’d had a hard life of it since his father, the big-headed i clerk,
had slunk off with the wages. The lad had been hard;
put to survive. Twice they had taken him to the poorhouse, and twice he had run away.
And then had
come the day that Roddy brought him to her, dirty, practically starving andj more like a wild animal than
a boy. It was she who had gone| over the hill to Abel Hamilton, who was a widower with no| chick or
child of his own and a man who was against al| order. He lived by what he made out of
his stint and the
fevl animals he kept on it, and she had persuaded him to give| the lad shelter in return for which he would
work for hima And Hal had worked for him till he was eleven, when h| went, first, into the coal mine, and
then, for bigger money, down to the smelt mill.
She sometimes thought that the lad had grown like the old man, wary, close, wasting no words on
speech. The only time he had ever let his tongue loose was the day he came to her for a potion for his
bruises, for he had been kicked black and blue by some louts from Haydon Bridge way.
And on that
occasion he had said to her, “I’ll suffer to me dying day for what me dad did. Nobody’ll ever let me
forget it. But you know something, Mrs. Kate, I’ve a feelin’ in me that one day he’ll
come back. I get it
strong at times.” And then he had cried: his head in his folded arms, he had sobbed while she rubbed his
discoloured body with a balm that never failed to give ease, for her mother had passed the recipe on to
her before she died, and over the years since she could have made a pretty penny, had she had enough
to hand to satisfy all those who had offered to pay her for it, especially those who went hunting and could
not keep their seats.
The next day the boy had brought her a sack of peat, saying her salve was magic. And she had agreed
with him, saying, “Aye. Yes, it is,” for so it had proved in many other cases. Always she kept her recipe
to herself: to enquirers she would say, “Oh, ‘tis mainly oil of roses, and St. John’s wort.”
To others:
“Pound up some baccy leaves in a mortar with some balsam.” She never mentioned
turpentine or
masticke, or a drop of wax, or resin to give the whole a stiffness, or the quantities. And so the recipients
other information always came back to her, saying, “I did what you said, Kate, but it
didn’t work for me
like yours does.”
One thing that irritated her about Hal, but not to the extent it did Mary Ellen, was the fact, to put it in her
own words, he hardly let Roddy breathe. But then he had no other friend to her
knowledge, nor did he
trouble the lasses.
Hal now caught her glance but there was no answering smile in his eyes, and her lips
champed against
each other before she spoke with an effort to keep her face straight, “Did he ever want to draw you,
Hal?”
And the answer she received was “No.” And now, trying not to move, she turned her eyes in Roddy’s
direction and asked, “Why don’t you draw Hal?” And the answer she was given this time
was, “He’s got
a difficult face.”
And now she did move: she put her head back and laughed, and Roddy cried, “Oh, that’s
done it!
Well, I’ll finish you later.” And he stood up and turned the slate downwards, and when she said, “Let me
have a look,” he answered, “When it’s finished and I’ve put it on paper.”
“I’ll likely be dead by then; that’s the third go you’ve had on me.”
“I shouldn’t wonder, as I’m not very good at faces.”
“You mean you’re not very good at mine. Anyway, after that business of sittin’ like a
stock I’ve got a
thirst on me. What about you two?”
Before they could answer she glanced through the open door, saying, “Ah now, here’s
one who never
refuses a drink.” And as Mary Ellen stepped into the room, Kate said to her, “I was just saying you’d
like a drink.”
“Aye. Yes, thanks, Kate, I would; it’s hot.” Mary Ellen pulled the top other cotton dress away from
her neck. Then looking towards where Roddy was putting his slate and chalk into what
looked like a
canvas bag, she added, “You been drawin’ again?”
“No, he’s been fishin’.”
She turned a sharp glance on the boy sitting to the side of the fire, and she retorted immediately, “Yes, I
can see that an’ all, and you likely got the hook in your tongue, you’re so sharp. You should have got the
line round your neck She was about to add, ‘and swung from it’, but she thought that
nasty; instead, she
continued to return the stare of the steel-grey eyes until Kate said, “ Now, now, you two.
And you, me
lass, get yourself in the room afore you start. “
“Well’—she tossed her head ‘he started, not me.”
“It doesn’t matter who started, I’m stoppin’ it. Do you want ginger or herb beer? But
need I ask, it’s
ginger, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
She ignored the abrupt reply, nor did she ask the boys what they wanted as she struggled to get up.
The room to themselves now, there was silence between the three of them for a moment
before, looking
at Roddy, Mary Ellen asked, “You goin’ down the dam?”
“No’—Roddy shook his head “ I’m going over to the mill. “
“The mill?” She looked him up and down. He was in his Sunday suit. And he explained
briefly by
muttering, “I’m drawin’ it from the top of the bank.”
“Drawing the mill? What do you want to draw the mill for?”
“Because he doesn’t get enough of it while he’s there, and he wants to remember it when he gets home.”
Again she was staring at the older boy.
“Clever clogs.” She made a face at him, then added, “I bet you don’t use a knife to spread your
drippin’, you do it with your tongue.”
At this Roddy laughed and said, “Well, I bet I know who showed him how to do it.” And
he gave her a
push in the shoulder; and now she laughed too, a gay high laugh, ending it with the
question, “Can I
come?”
“Eeh! no. Your da’s forbidden you along there, hasn’t he? And there’ll be a shift goin’
down about
now.”
“And they use naughty words.”
She again looked towards Hal but ignored his remark. She knew, though, she had been
silly to ask
because it wasn’t so long ago that she was given a skelping on her backside for going
down to the mill.
She had protested strongly to her father that she’d only gone to meet him, but he had told her time and
again he didn’t want to be met. Yet she had noticed other children, not only meeting their fathers but
working in the slag. She often wondered why her da insisted on her being different;
there was no fun in being different. Even when they went to the barn dance he wouldn’t let her romp
with all the others. Her ma would have, but then her ma didn’t have the final say in such matters. All her
ma would say at such times was, “Behave yourself or you’ll have his brows as black as
drawn
slag,” whatever that meant. She had never seen drawn slag, she only knew it was
something that came
out of the kilns in the mill. She didn’t like the mill and somehow she knew her father didn’t either.
One day she had dared to say to him, “Why don’t you work on a farm.
Da? “ And he had answered her in a strange way, “ Do you like to eat meat every
Sunday? “ he had
said.
“Yes,” she had answered.
“And you like to have boots on your feet an’ not clogs?” he had said, and again she had answered,
“Yes.”
“And do you like a new frock come Easter?” he had said.
“Yes, Da, yes. I love a new frock come Easter.”
And then he had said, “Well, all that takes money, more money than I would get workin’
on a farm. But
remember this, never crave for too much money, just enough to bring a little comfort to the inside and
outside of your body, because with money often comes misery and a discontent with your lot. Learn to
be satisfied with being well shod and well fed and a good bed and a hap over you to keep out the winter
winds.”
Her da was a funny man. That wasn’t the right word, but she knew what it meant inside
her head.
When they had finished their drinks, the two boys made for the door, and there Roddy
turned and,
looking towards her, said, “I’ll be comin’ over to your place the night. Your da’s
promised to tell me a
thing or two because on the morrow’s shift I go in on the floor.” Then turning more fully to look at her,
he said, “An’ you start up Davison’s, don’t you?” She nodded, and he returned her nod
with a smile
before swinging round and running down the path to join his friend.
Mary Ellen stood in the doorway watching the two figures, one tall and straight, the other hardly coming
up to his shoulder, but whose body seemed to be of twice the I thickness, and she
wondered if there
would ever be a time again when she would have Roddy to herself; they had been
together such a lot
before he had gone to work at the mill.
“So you start work the morrow?” ]
54 |
She turned to Kate and half-heartedly she replied, “Yes. And... and I don’t know whether I’m gona
like it or not.”
“Well, hinny, you can’t stay tied to your mother’s apron strings forever.”
She took no umbrage at this because she knew she had been lucky to be at home all this time and not
sent out tatie picking, or stone picking, or scare crowing She said now, “I’m gona miss poppin’ in.”
“Huh!” Kate laughed.
“You won’t be away forever. You’re lucky, so your ma tells me, a half day every Sunday and a whole
day once a month. My!
It’s usually a half day a month for them in service, leastwise in the big houses, and the half day starting in
the middle of the afternoon an’ all in many cases. “
“Did you ever go into service, Kate?”
“No, I never did, lass, not in that way. I was free. I worked in me father’s carpenter’s shop until I was
sixteen. Then it was burnt down and that finished him. I married Davey who had been
apprenticed there
and just out of his time, and with him and me mother I came here to this cottage, where she herself had
been born and had left to get married, and here I’ve been ever since.”
“Did your mother know about herbs and things?”
“Yes, and her mother, and her mother afore her. Which reminds me, higtaper will be out about now.
You know the kind; you’ll find it along the ditch yon side of the wood.”
“Why do you always call long wort higtaper, Kate?”
“Because I’ve always known it as higtaper. There’s a male and a female, but as you know I prefer the
female. An’ you know what it’s like, don’t you? Well, you should so, you’ve picked it
long enough.”
“Well sometimes I get them mixed up ‘cos they’re nearly alike except one’s white and
one’s yellow.”
“So—’ Kate laughed a deep throaty laugh that denied her years as she went on, “ Likely God made the
female plant white to denote purity, although, as I often say. His eyesight must have been affected now
and then. But anyway He made it for the lungs, especially those in cattle that get choked up. And when
you’re on, if you should happen to come across a cowslip. but they’re mostly over now.
Still, here and
there they persevere, and there’s a dank place, you know, near the ride. I wouldn t tell you to go near it
if it had been raining of late, but it should be dried up now, or nearly so. Still, there might be parts soggy
enough to grow a cowslip. I wish I could get up there me self but me legs are refusing to obey orders
these days and I can only keep to the flats. There now, take this basket and, as I always tell you, don’t
pass any dead nettle. If you come back by Peter Stubbs’s cottage you’ll most likely come across a heap