The Miner’s Girl (15 page)

Doris Wright came in from the yard where she had been dashing pit clothes against the coalhouse wall to get rid of the caking of coal dust which covered them after every shift underground. She deposited them in the corner by the fire where they would be ready for Robbie to wear. He was on night shift this week and would be going out at three o'clock. She spoke in a low voice because he was in bed.

‘Haven't you done those pots yet? Oh, get out of the way, I haven't time to wait all day for you.' She shoved Merry aside, almost causing her to topple to the floor. As it was, Merry saved herself by grabbing hold of
the table. Doris didn't appear to notice. Feeling utterly defeated, Merry sat down.

‘I've got the sack from the hospital,' she said.

Doris looked at her, her thin lips tightening. She turned away and walked to the door as though going out, then turned back.

‘And what are you going to live on, miss? 'Cause it's bloody certain you cannot live on us, nor our Robbie neither. It's time you found somewhere else an' if the only place is the workhouse you'll have to go there, won't you?' She glared at Merry, her hands on her hips.

‘I'll keep meself, thank you!' said Merry.

‘Oh aye. And how are you going to do that exactly? Live on fresh air, can you?' Doris taunted. ‘You had a good job an' a better chance than most other lasses around here and what did you do wi' it? Chucked it away, that's what. No, you're angling to trap my lad so you'll have a meal ticket for life, that's what. Don't think I haven't seen you making eyes at him 'cause I have!'

‘I haven't, no, I haven't,' cried Merry, feeling sick, but Doris Wright was past listening. All the pent-up resentment she had been harbouring since Robbie brought the girl into her house was pouring out now.

‘My Robbie's a good lad; he's going to take his under manager's ticket. He could marry a lass wi' a bit behind her. He doesn't have to marry a nowt like you that's been living up in Old Pit among falling down houses 'cause she
couldn't get anything better. An' that's another thing, all this tale about a lost brother, why man, nobody believes a word you say about him. Ben Trent? There never was a lad called Ben Trent. If there was he never went to school here. He wasn't baptised at the chapel neither.'

‘There was, of course there was.' Merry was amazed that anyone should say such a thing. It was as though Ben was of no account, had never been of any account. It was true that Gran had kept them away from Winton Colliery, and Eden Hope an' all for that matter, and Ben had gone to school in Shildon. But he had gone to school, she could prove it.

Suddenly she remembered that the policeman at Bishop had been sceptical when he discovered she didn't have a birth certificate for Ben, after which he hadn't bothered looking for him much.

‘Ben was my brother! No, I mean, he is my brother, I'm telling you.' He was alive, she was sure Ben was still alive. Robbie and his marras hadn't found a thing when they moved the pitfall in the old mine. Though of course they hadn't been able to move it all. But Doris was speaking again, cruelly and sarcastically.

‘Oh aye? Then mebbe you can tell me how it is your mam died when you were born? I know she did 'cause Etty Morrison told us before she went off yon side of Durham. So what was it, a miracle birth? Or did your gran pinch him from the gypsies?'

Doris laughed, a hard, amused, cruel laugh. That was a good joke she'd made.

Merry looked at her, fighting back the tears, for she wasn't going to let this spiteful biddy know just how much she had been hurt. ‘I'll go,' she said. ‘I'll go as soon as I can.'

‘Aye well, you haven't got much to pack,' Doris jeered.

‘Don't worry about that. I have plenty of clothes in my room at the hospital.' She had a spare shift and pair of knickers and petticoat, much patched. And of course, her Sunday best dress.

‘Aye well, you won't have far to move them, will you? Just to the workhouse next door.'

Merry opened her mouth to retort but both women were stopped in their tracks by the roar from upstairs.

‘What the hell is all the racket? Can a man not have his sleep in peace without being woken up in the middle of it?'

Robbie came thumping down the stairs in his bare feet, his trousers pulled on anyhow over his nightshirt and his braces hanging down by his sides.

‘Did she wake you up, son? Eeh, I'm sorry, she just wouldn't shut her gob,' cried Doris.

‘Aw, Mam, you were shouting an' all. How a man is supposed to go to work when he cannot sleep—' Robbie stopped as he saw Merry pulling on her coat and
wrapping her head and neck in a shawl. ‘Where are you going? You're not fit, man, you cannot walk yet!'

‘She's going back to the workhouse where she belongs,' his mother said calmly and Robbie shot her a venomous look.

‘I have to go, Robbie,' said Merry quietly. ‘I have to get my things, anyway. I've lost me job.'

‘But where are you going? You've nowhere to go, have you?'

‘I can always go back to Old Pit,' said Merry.

‘Aye, go on. I heard there was a gang of tinkers there any road, and like goes to like,' Doris jeered. Robbie ignored her.

‘You can stay here, never mind what she says,' he said and his mother gasped.

‘Robbie!'

‘No, I have to go, Robbie,' said Merry. ‘Thank you both for having me,' she said formally. ‘I hope I can borrow the broom. I'll bring it back when I can.' She slipped out of the door.

‘Wait! I'll get me boots on—'

But Merry was away, hastening down the yard as fast as she could considering her splinted ankle, and set off down the row to the corner where she hoped to get the ten o'clock horse bus that went into Bishop Auckland. The cobbles were slippy with ice where the sun had not yet reached them, so her progress was slow and she
was panting by the time she got to the end of the row, but luckily the bus was standing there with only a few people sitting on it.

The driver was untying a nosebag from his horse's head. ‘'Ere lass, I'll give you a hand up,' he said and took hold of her arm.

‘Never you mind, I'll do it.'

Merry glanced round. Robbie had come after her, his jacket slung on anyhow and his pit boots unlaced. He was collarless and his shirt neck was open.

‘Robbie, you shouldn't. I told you I could manage,' she said. ‘You need your sleep, you're on shift the night.'

‘I won't sleep now, not a wink,' Robbie said grimly. ‘I'll follow you down. I'll take the path through the woods and be there as soon as you, likely. I'll just get me coat and scarf.'

The women already on the bus watched the two with interest.

‘It looks like Robbie Wright is sweet on that lass,' one observed to her friend.

‘I bet Doris Wright is spitting feathers about that an' all,' her friend replied.

As the horse clopped its way down the road and around corners, stopping now and then to pick people up – it was Thursday and market day in Auckland and the town would be full of housewives from the surrounding pit
villages – Merry allowed herself the luxury of thinking about everything that had happened.

She had been so sure that Ben was under the rubble in the entrance to the ancient drift mine. Yet she hadn't wanted to believe it. Desperately she wanted him to be alive, to be at sea, to be somewhere, anywhere on this earth. But she knew him too well – Ben would not have deserted her, she was certain he would not. She rubbed her forehead with her forefinger, felt the pulse that beat there. A fog of unhappiness clouded her mind.

Merry allowed herself to think of Tom, remembering the feel of him beside her in the house in Old Pit. The warmth of him, the touch of his hands, how he made her feel safe and taken care of. He had aroused feelings in her she had never suspected she was capable of. In a way she felt guilty at the strength of those feelings for surely all her thoughts should have been concentrated on the fact that she thought she had found Ben, on her grief for Ben.

The bus was approaching the market place in Bishop Auckland and the passengers were stirring, gathering together shawls and baskets. She could hear the fishwives from Shields, calling their wares.

‘Caller herring, fresh cod, drawn from the North Sea this very morning!'

The horse stopped at the edge of the market, puffing and blowing with distended nostrils. Merry limped down
the steps, the pain in her ankle excruciating for, of course, she hadn't brought the makeshift crutch made from Doris Wright's sweeping brush. Still, she had a small store of money, one pound eleven and twopence to be exact, and she could buy a cheap walking stick from the stall next to the fishwives. It cost one and threepence but it had a rubber tip so wouldn't slip on the cobbles. It was a long walk up to Oaklands and all uphill. She hobbled along, stopping at times as the crowds surged around her up the road that was straight as a die, for it had been a Roman road.

In spite of her predicament, Merry was feeling a little hopeful. Though Tom had not been to see her at all since
that
night, and must have known where she was, Dr Macready had said something about having to do two men's work, so there could have been a good reason for it. But surely he would be at the hospital; this was his time to be there. She could bump into him at any time. She paused and gazed into Lipton's window, not at the display of tinned goods and packets of tea but at her reflection against them. She wished she had had time to tidy herself better, but she could go to her room and wash and comb her hair – perhaps even put on her good dress now that she was no longer expected to wear a uniform apron. She did look a bit like a waif at the minute.

There was his overcoat too, though it was still at the Wrights' house. She had the coat to return to him; she could mention it. Her thoughts were interrupted as
a shadow came behind her, blotting out her image in the glass.

‘Robbie! You shouldn't have come, I can manage. You need your bed if you're to work tonight.'

‘I'll get a couple of hours later. I wanted to make sure you would be all right. Howay, you can lean on me to walk up to Cockton Hill.'

Merry looked at him and sighed. He acted as though they were going together and they weren't – she was nobody's lass. And she didn't want to meet Dr Gallagher while she was leaning on Robbie's arm.

‘If any of the other lads see you they'll have a laugh,' she said and it was true. Men, proper men didn't link arms with lasses, not pitmen didn't. His marras would call him a Nancy-boy if they caught him doing that.

Robbie wasn't a bit bothered. ‘They wouldn't dare, man,' he said cheerfully. ‘If they did they might end up with a smashed nose or a broken head. Nay, they won't mess wi' me.'

Merry had to admit it was a great relief to have his hard, well-muscled arm to lean on. It didn't take long to reach the workhouse and the hospital wards behind.

‘Wait out here, please, Robbie,' said Merry. ‘I won't be long. I just have to see Matron and collect my things. Then you can help me find a lodging house.'

‘You can come away home wi' me,' said Robbie. ‘I'll soon put me mam straight, she won't bother you.'

‘I'd best be on my own,' said Merry and he was silent. He might say what he would do but Merry knew Doris was the boss in their house.

The interview with Matron was short. It was a waste of time appealing to her, the meeting of the Board of Guardians had made the decision and Matron could do nothing about it even if she wanted to, which evidently she did not.

‘You have proved yourself unreliable, Miss Trent,' she said. ‘I would have thought you would be grateful for the chance to train properly that the Guardians were prepared to give you. You let them down badly, didn't you?'

‘I couldn't help hurting my ankle, Matron,' Merry ventured.

‘No excuses, Miss Trent. I cannot abide excuses.'

‘No Matron, I'm sorry. But I hoped I would be able to use my room at least until my leg is better.'

Matron looked affronted. ‘Use the room? Certainly not, Miss Trent. It will be needed for someone more deserving. You may go now and please ensure you clear your things and have the room clean and tidy within the hour. If you don't mind, Miss Trent.'

‘But—'

‘Miss Trent, if you are desperate for somewhere to stay perhaps you can satisfy the Guardians you are destitute and want to enter the workhouse?'

‘No. No, I don't,' Merry said quickly. ‘I can manage. I just thought . . . well, never mind. I will find somewhere, don't worry about me.' She lifted her chin in the air and limped to the door. Dare she ask about Dr Gallagher? She had nothing to lose, she told herself, and turned back to Matron.

‘I wonder if you could tell me if Dr Gallagher is in the hospital, Matron. He was kind to me and I want to say goodbye.'

If it was possible, Matron looked more affronted than she had before. ‘No he is not, and if he were I shouldn't think he'd want such as you bothering him.'

‘He's not here?' Merry was despairing and Matron's expression became even more forbidding.

‘That's what I said. Dr Gallagher does not work here any more.'

Matron was not prepared to discuss a doctor with this girl any more. ‘I think you should go, Miss Trent,' she said, rising to her feet and Merry went.

He didn't work at the hospital any more and he wasn't working in his practice at Winton Colliery. Tom had disappeared, just as Ben had disappeared. Merry was defeated. It was obvious that Tom had left to get away from her, she thought. Otherwise he would have got in touch with her – he could surely have found her in a small place like Winton Colliery?

Miserably she went to her tiny cubbyhole of a room where she packed her straw box and tied it round with her grandfather's leather belt. Then she went out of the workhouse grounds to where Robbie was waiting, leaning against the high wall, watching the folk go by.