And the Farrows’ forty acres meant he had access to old man Nicholson’s land beyond, and it was common knowledge that Nicholson had lost interest in everything since his only son had been taken with the fever five years ago.
Frederick breathed in deeply, drawing the raw air full into his lungs as a feeling of well-being quickened his blood. Land. Land meant power, and it was the only thing that really excited him. He had thought to wait another couple of years before he showed his hand with Polly, but the events of the last week or two were urging him to get things settled. By, he’d got the gliff of his life when that young whippersnapper had marched in and stated that he and Polly wanted to get wed, but as it was, it had furthered his course more effectively than anything else could have done. But there were still those other two sniffing about; he couldn’t afford to rest on his laurels. His upper lip curled at the thought of Eva’s stepsons, whom he considered vastly beneath him in every way. Aye, he needed to press on sure enough, and now that interfering, hoity-toity baggage who had been lodging at the farm had hightailed it, it left the road even clearer.
The Women’s Political and Social Union indeed! Unnatural they were, the lot of them. What did women want the vote for anyway? They didn’t have the faintest idea of what it took to run a country; their minds weren’t made that way. And just last week the Independent Labour Party had called for female emancipation! Keir Hardie wanted shooting, he did straight. Fuelling the silly notions put forward by these Pankhurst women, who would be better applied trimming their bonnets or whatever it was ladies did.
But no matter, no matter. He consciously wiped the frown from his brow and forced himself to relax. The Collins woman was gone, and as far as he could ascertain Polly had expressed no sorrow at her leaving. He would soon make sure any stupid notions she had put in Polly’s head were dealt with; his wife would know her rightful place sure enough.
There was a ground mist hovering over the land and everything was soaked with the icy drizzle that was falling, the road beneath the horse’s feet glutinous mud, but as the horse and trap approached the turn-off for Stone Farm, the going became easier.
His grandfather had had the foresight to have a thick layer of pebbles and small stones laid on the drive up to the farm, and Frederick never drove down the stony path without a feeling of well-being enveloping him. The drive signified wealth and prestige – it had taken two men three months to complete it to his grandfather’s satisfaction – and prepared any visitors for the prosperous and thriving farm and imposing farmhouse they would see at the end of it.
And now Polly had seen it. He gave a grunt of satisfaction as the farmhouse came into view. Next time he would show her the labourers’ cottages, which he prided himself were better than most, and certainly cleaner than she’d find on any other farm hereabouts. No stinking cesspools or foul-smelling middens outside the back door for his workers; the middens were at the end of their strips of garden, which were a good hundred yards long, and the contents of the small wooden boxes were collected every five days by Croft or one of his workers in the farm cart and dumped in the old quarry a mile away. His workers were well looked after, and they knew it, and gave him the absolute obedience and respect he deserved.
Yes, Polly would appreciate that an alliance with Frederick was a feather in her cap, but just in case she proved to be difficult, her Achilles heel, in the form of her family, would provide him with all the persuasion he needed. He smiled to himself, his lips exposing teeth of a surprising whiteness. 1906 was going to be his year, he felt it in his bones.
Luke’s thoughts were the very antithesis of Frederick’s as he sat at the kitchen table the next morning feeling as sick as a dog. For the first time in his life he had gone out and got mortalious after his father had left, staggering home just after ten, whereupon he had vomited his heart up in the deep glazed sink in the scullery and all but passed out on the cold stone flags.
He had been vaguely aware of his stepmother and Arnold looking in on him at some point, but he had come to a couple of hours later to the realisation that they had left him where he had dropped and gone to bed. He’d been chilled to the bone and feeling like death as he’d pulled himself to his feet, grimacing in self-disgust at the mess in the sink.
Once he’d cleared up in the scullery, he’d stumbled upstairs, there to fall on his bed fully dressed as the grinding pain in his head and the nausea in his stomach took the last of the strength from his legs. And to think some of the men he worked with got into this state every pay day. He didn’t know whether to feel sorry for them or give them a medal!
‘You had a load on last night.’
Arnold had always been one for stating the obvious, and Luke didn’t bother to reply, but he winced slightly as his brother sat down at the table with a steaming bowl of porridge with a big dollop of jam in the centre of it.
‘You thought what Da clearing off means to us, then?’ Arnold took a great spoonful of porridge, half of which dribbled on to his chin.
‘Aye.’ Luke had leaned back in the chair and shut his eyes after one look at the porridge, and he didn’t open them as he said, ‘Strikes me it’s a pity you didn’t afore you opened your big mouth. What did you think he was going to say? Thanks for telling me, lads, and he’d leave it at that?’
‘Now don’t you pin this on me, our Luke.’ Arnold’s voice was without heat; he had been thinking along the same lines himself. ‘How did I know the old man had a woman on the side? I mean, Da of all people.’
‘What do you mean, Da of all people?’ Luke’s eyes had snapped open at the derogatory note in his brother’s voice.
‘He’s wind and water, always has been.’ Arnold was too busy spooning in the porridge between words to notice the expression on Luke’s face. ‘I’d have knocked me wife into next weekend many a time rather than put up with a quarter of what he’s put up with. She wouldn’t have been so cocky with her face bashed in.’ After a moment Luke’s utter silence brought Arnold’s attention from his bowl, and when he saw his brother’s tight, deep gaze fixed on his face, his eyes flickered. Luke saw Arnold’s Adam’s apple jerk up under his chin and then fall again, but his voice was aggressive when he said, ‘What? What have I said now? It’s true, isn’t it? She called him a weak-kneed nowt, and to my mind she wasn’t too far from the truth.’
‘You say that again, ever, and I’ll do for you.’
Arnold stared at his brother. Luke’s voice had been low, eerily low, but it had felt like he had been yelling.
‘You’re a nasty, filthy-minded, selfish swine at the best of times, but you’re stupid too.’ Luke carried on talking and Arnold sat as though mesmerised. ‘You can’t recognise goodness, can you, because there’s not an ounce of that quality in the whole of your body. Da got her in because of us and he stayed because of us, and everything he put up with he put up with because of us and Michael too. Even knowing Michael wasn’t his he never showed it, not once, not ever. And you look at all that and you take him for a mug. I tell you, man, you’re not worthy to lick his boots.’
‘No?’ Arnold had jerked to his feet, two spots of colour high on his cheekbones. ‘Well, I wonder if you’ll still be saying that when you’re left with her. He thumbed towards the ceiling. ‘Because I tell you straight, I’m out of it as soon as I get meself a room somewhere. I’m not getting landed.’ He snatched up his bait can on the last words and stalked out of the house without waiting for his brother.
Aye, well, he wasn’t surprised. Luke sighed wearily and then got to his feet, wincing again as a hundred little men with hammers pounded at his temples. He was under no illusions about Arnold’s capacity for tolerance and understanding; it was nonexistent.
By, he felt rough. He reached for his own bait can, and as he did so the smell of smoke on his clothes was heavy. Mind, it wasn’t surprising – the air had been so thick with it in the pub last night that he hadn’t been able to see from one end of the room to the other. The smell of Shag tobacco smoke, McEwan’s bitter or Burton’s bass had been coming off every man’s breath, and they’d all breathed it in, coughed and spluttered it out and repeated the business over and over for hours. The cards, the dominoes, even the old fox terriers lying under the tables had all stunk with it, and in the corner there had been a whiff of vinegar with old man’s pee added to it. And he knew plenty of pitmen who lived in the place more than their own homes. They would sit there, kneading their dark brown baccy twist with the juice still in it to fill their pipe, a pint of Bass in front of them and a smile on their face as they peered through the thick haze.
Luke shook his head and then wished he hadn’t as his brain objected. He wanted more than that from life. And he wanted more than the pit had to offer too. The air in that pub had been fresh compared to where he worked all week, and with one in every fifty Durham miners killed in the pit and ten times that number expected to have a serious accident at some time, life could be short. Every miner expected to lose fingers or bits of them, but they were considered minor injuries, and the owners and viewers would have laughed at any miner who tried to say that such accidents deserved compensation. But Luke had yet to see one of the managers or owners with half a hand gone or eyes full of disease because of the coal dust. And he didn’t want to end up like that, or under tons of coal and stone either.
Oh, stop your blathering. The voice in his head was caustic. All this because his father had gone, and yet no, it wasn’t that, not really. If he thought he had the faintest chance with Polly, if he was coming home to her each night, and their bairns, he would work down the pit till he dropped.
There was a movement from upstairs, and not wishing to face his stepmother until his head belonged to him again, Luke made hurriedly for the front door, pulling his cap low over his forehead as he stepped into the raw northern air.
He was on foreshift this week – six o’clock in the morning until two in the afternoon – and normally he didn’t mind the early start, but with his head drumming a tattoo and his stomach loose from its linings he could have done with another few hours in bed.
Once at the pit he joined the group of men – of which Arnold was one – waiting to go down in the cage, automatically tilting his head to the side as he entered because of the low roof. As soon as everybody was in, the gate was slammed shut and the cage took off with its normal clash, tearing down faster and faster until it clanged to a stop.
There was the odd bit of good-natured bantering as the forty or so men – twenty from the top half of the cage and twenty from the bottom – began to walk down the road. Within minutes it had got narrower and narrower, the roof lowering sharply until the big men – like himself and Arnold – were doubled up. It was pitch black, a blackness so consuming that it seemed to swallow the light from the lamps whole. It had unnerved Luke when he had first come down the pit, this blackness. He had felt it sucked the thought process out of him, that the essential part of himself which made him what he was had been submerged in a drowning flood of fear that reduced him to animal level. But he had got used to it. You could get used to anything if you had to.
A group of men sectioned off into a side road leading to their district amid more banter, the main recipient of the witticisms – a young lad of eighteen who had got married the day before – taking the jibing in good part.
‘You just make sure you’ve enough strength left at the end of the shift, Lenny, all right?’
‘Aye, he’ll need it sure enough. She won’t be happy till you’ve given her a bairn, lad. They’re all the same.’
‘Fair wore me out, my missus, until she’d got three or four hangin’ round her skirts, an’ even now she keeps me at it.’
‘In your dreams, Rob. In your dreams.’
Luke smiled to himself as he and a good number of men continued along the road. Robert Finnigan was what the man himself described as a good Catholic, meaning he gave his missus a bairn every year regular as clockwork, and it was common knowledge that she’d said every baby for the last five years was the last one. But still they kept coming. Fourteen of them now packed into three rooms, and to look at Rob you’d think a breath of wind would blow him away. But he was a tough little customer.
The mental image of the five-foot-nothing little Irishman brought his father into Luke’s mind; Rob and Nathaniel had been good friends from bairns. His father had been on the backshift this week; Luke would have to let the deputy know he wouldn’t be coming in. Would his da go to his brother’s place in Boldon Lane and try to get set on at the Harton pit? Or would he take his Tess further afield than South Shields? One thing was for sure, gossip travelled faster and with more deadly accuracy than any knife in these parts. In lives made up of hard, grinding labour from morning to night it was the one thing that cost nothing and provided the most pleasure – unless you were the victim, that was.
Luke smiled again, but it was a cynical twist of his lips this time, and the man at the side of him – an old miner who had been down the pit some forty years – glanced his way. ‘Somethin’ amused ye, lad?’
‘Down here? That’d be the day, Pete.’
‘Aye, aye.’ Pete gave a hoarse laugh. ‘Nowt doon here to tickle yor fancy sure enough. Old Bob had two of his fingers off yesterday, hangin’ on by a thread they were, an’ yer know what Harley told him? Go home an’ put a clooty bag on ’em. Damn fool doctor! How does he think a flour bag filled with hot bran’ll help? Bob’s missus snipped ’em off an’ did the necessary an’ that with the so-an’-so’s keepin’ a penny of our pay for the doctor. Doctor! He couldn’t doctor the pit ponies, that one.’ Pete swore, loudly and with great fluency, and the last word was still on his lips when the blast hit.