The Miner’s Girl (3 page)

As soon as Eliza had gone Peggy slung the baby in her shawl and went down to the other end of the rows where Jim Hawthorne had a nanny goat. It was tethered along the track and she'd seen it often – why hadn't she thought of it before?

‘You just caught me, missus,' Jim said. He was loading a handcart with his furniture, his young sons struggling
to help. His wife sat at the door, looking bewildered, her baby in her arms. Poor Bessie Hawthorne had been a bit strange since the disaster when all of her five brothers had been killed.

‘Where are we going, Jim?' she kept repeating, and when he patiently told her, ‘but why, Jim?'

Peggy's heart dropped to her scuffed black boots. ‘I was hoping for goat's milk for the bairn,' she said. ‘But if you're going—'

‘I tell you what missus,' said Jim. ‘You can have the old nanny goat. I doubt she'll have another kid and I can't trek her halfway across the county. She's nearly past it, man.'

‘I can't pay for her,' said Peggy. ‘I'm sorry, lad.'

‘No, you tak' her, it's all right. At least I have the family left to me. You need the milk any road. I'm off over to the east of the county, and like I said, old Nannie wouldn't stand the journey. You'll soon get the hang of milking her. Howay now, I'll show you.' He took a pan from a box on the handcart and strolled over to the goat, Peggy following him with Merry.

‘See now, she's as gentle as a baby hersel'. Just grab her dugs firmly and squeeze gently like this, you'll manage.'

Peggy laid the baby down on the grass and did as she was told. It took a few tries but in the end she had a satisfying half-full pan of warm, frothy milk. At the same
time she had milk spattered all over her blouse and down her skirt but that was matterless, clothes would wash.

‘I'll fetch her along to your end for you,' said Jim. ‘I can spare a few minutes.'

‘Eeh, thanks, Jim, I'll never forget you,' said Peggy.

‘Getaway, it was nowt,' he declared and strode off with a wave of the hand.

Peggy looked about her. Already half the folk had gone, she thought sadly. Whoever would have thought it – a few short weeks ago? She went in and changed the baby's nappy and laid her in the drawer. The milk she took through to the pantry at the back of the house where it was cool. Outside she could hear the goat bleating so she went out and drew water in a bucket from the pump standing on the end of the rows. The agent had had the pump put in when the union had petitioned for one. After all it was a wet pit and the water, after percolating through the rocky ground, was pure and sweet as spring water.

Outside it was very quiet. A few more families had moved off and some of the windows already looked dark and desolate without their dolly-dyed net curtains, the doorsteps not yellow-stoned for more than a week.

‘I doubt I'll be on me own,' she said softly to herself. But where could she go? She put the bucket of water down where Nannie could reach it and watched as the animal drank. It was no good thinking like that, she
thought. Any road, she wasn't on her own, was she? She had Merry and now she had the animal, Nannie. She'd best try to gather some fodder for the beast with winter coming on. She could start that tonight and then tomorrow she would go about outside the village and see if she could get any washing to do.

The afternoon was turning cooler, so she'd best make herself a bite of dinner, she reckoned. Not that she felt hungry but she had to keep her strength up for the sake of the babby. There were carrots and turnips in the garden, Tommy had made sure of that. And she had the heel end of a bit of cheese to flavour them. And maybe, if she got enough milk from Nannie she'd be able to make some cottage cheese with what Merry didn't want, and flavour it with some of the herbs that grew about the place. There were the gardens of the empty houses an' all, she thought. There might be some foraging there.

Peggy sighed, she couldn't fool herself. It was going to be a tight few years 'til the bairn got up a bit. But she couldn't afford to look further than the winter that was coming on.

Miles Gallagher, agent for a number of collieries in the area, happened to be looking out of the drawing-room window when Peggy, with the baby slung in her shawl from her shoulders, trudged up the drive. She hesitated
for a moment and hoisted her bundle a little higher against her breast, then turned to go around the house to the back.

He knew that woman, he thought idly, and racked his brains to remember where he had seen her. Of course, it was at the memorial service for those killed in the explosion at Jane Pit. She was the one who had turned her head and stared levelly at him as he took his place in the front row of the mean little chapel, alongside the manager, Jack Mackay. Jack had been a little uneasy about having the service only a fortnight after the disaster.

‘Supposing they're not all dead yet?' he had asked. ‘Supposing there's an air getting in to them?'

‘Nonsense,' Miles had replied robustly. ‘Of course they are all gone. An act of God it was.'

It was then he had felt the old woman's eyes on him; he'd turned and met the direct stare. A feisty one that, he had thought. But his conscience was clear, he had persuaded the owner to give the widows and orphans an average week's pay to help them get over the first few weeks. What more could anyone do? Mining was a business after all. And the enquiry, such as it was, had not put any blame at the door of the management.

The woman was walking back down the drive now, her head bent, whether over the child or in dejection it was difficult to see. The domestic staff had orders not
to give charity to anybody – they couldn't start that or the house would be besieged by mendicants. Still . . . on impulse, Miles rang for Polly, the parlour maid.

‘Who was that woman with the child, Polly?' he asked when she answered the bell.

‘Mrs Trent, sir,' said Polly. ‘She was the one—'

‘Yes, I know who she is,' said Miles. The one who lost her husband, son and grandson in the accident, he thought. ‘Was she begging?'

‘No, sir. She's a washerwoman now, sir,' said Polly. ‘She wanted to know if we had any work for her.' She kept her voice neutral though she was full of sympathy for Peggy Trent. She had felt terrible when Cook had explained that they did their own washing.

‘I'm good with fine linen, embroidery and such,' Peggy had said. ‘I used to work in the bishop's laundry.'

‘A long time ago though, Peggy,' Cook had said. ‘Thirty years it must be.'

Peggy had nodded. ‘Well, thanks anyway. I'd best be on me way,' she said and walked back round the house and down the drive.

‘Mrs Trent used to work in the bishop's laundry,' Polly said now. ‘She's good with fine things.'

‘Thank you, that will be all,' said Miles dismissively. Polly bobbed a curtsey and went back to the kitchen. She'd tried, she told herself, done her best for the woman. In the old days, when Mrs Gallagher was still
alive, things had been different. She always did her best for destitute folk. Mr Gallagher was harder.

Normally Miles would have forgotten all about the incident. After all, miners' widows were ten a penny, weren't they. But it had put him in mind of Jane Pit. He really ought to go there, and check that the joiners had done their job properly in capping the pit; see if there was anything else that could be salvaged and perhaps used elsewhere. He would ride, he decided. There was no proper road anyway and his hunter, Marcus, could do with the exercise.

That woman, Mrs Trent, was climbing over the stile that led from the fields to the footpath alongside the old waggon way. She climbed stiffly, awkward because she was carrying a baby in her shawl. He pulled Marcus up and waited impatiently for her to get out of his way. Marcus snorted and she looked alarmed for a moment and then, safely over the stile, she stood back. The baby cried suddenly, not loudly but a thin wail. Bittersweet memories rushed back at him – his son Thomas in Mary's arms on the day he was born. It had been a difficult and prolonged labour and Mary was exhausted. She had lain back against the pillows, her dark hair spread out around her. Her face had been as white as her nightgown and she hadn't lasted the night through.

‘Come on, woman, get out of my way!' he barked and the old woman stumbled but managed to keep on
her feet. Miles bent down and unfastened the gate by the stile and went through, turning off for Jane Pit, leaving Peggy gazing after him.

There was not much to salvage, he decided. Though there were slates on the roofs of the houses that could be used again, and doors. Most of the houses were empty but there were still one or two occupied. He would tell the colliery joiners to wait a week or two before stripping them – there was plenty of time, he thought. New rows would have to be built at Eden Hope where they were sinking a shaft to Busty seam, but it wouldn't be working for months yet. Still, they could take the roof slates from the engine house and rip out the iron staircase. Owners liked to see evidence of thrift.

He was mounting his horse to return home, watched by a group of urchins who stared up at him with large eyes and their thumbs deep in their mouths as though they would eat them altogether, when he saw the old woman, Peggy Trent. She came round the top of the rows and trudged down to the end house. She looked careworn; weary to death. The baby had stopped crying and was looking out at its bleak world with large, solemn eyes.

On impulse he trotted up to them.

‘Come to the house tomorrow,' he said. ‘There will be fine laundry for you to do.'

Now why did he do that? he asked himself as he trotted down the waggon way. He must be going soft. But
after all, he hadn't been satisfied with his dress shirts the last time they had been laundered. Poor Mary used to do them herself when she was alive. No one else could do them as she had.

‘Eeh, thank you, sir,' said Peggy and her dark eyes lit up as she smiled, and suddenly he realised she wasn't so old. Her hair had a white streak in it and there were lines at the corner of her eyes and mouth, but she stood upright with the baby in her arms and when she moved off she walked with a spring in her step that he hadn't detected earlier.

Miles watched for a moment then went on his way. She was probably younger than he was, he reflected. These miners' wives looked old at forty, it must be the life they led. He forgot about Peggy as he turned his horse and trotted off along the path by the line. He would go to Winton Colliery, he decided. He might as well while he was near. Besides, he wanted a word with the manager there.

She had one customer, Peggy thought as she milked the goat that evening. She leaned her head into Nannie's rough hide squeezing rhythmically and the warm milk squirted into the pan. Thank God for it, she thought. It provided a lifeline until she managed to get more work. When she had finished she pegged the goat out on a fresh patch of weeds and grass and carried the milk into the house.

Merry was still asleep in her drawer, her thumb stuck firmly in her mouth. Peggy gazed at her for a moment. There was a furrow between the baby's eyebrows and she smoothed it with her forefinger. Poor little mite, she mused. Poor little orphan. Peggy prayed she would be spared long enough to raise her. God save her from the workhouse.

Moving away, she stirred the fire and put on a small shovelful of coal. Tomorrow she would have to find time to scour the pit heap for pieces. She broke up a crust of bread into a bowl and added a sprinkling of sugar. There was the end of a cinnamon stick in the pantry, she remembered, left over from last Christmas. She would grate a bit on the broily as a treat. Warming a little of the milk she poured it over the bread and the smell of cinnamon rose from it. Peggy closed her eyes for a moment, dwelling on the memories the aroma evoked.

Christmas last, when the family had been all around her, Tommy had brought in holly and ivy and they had garlanded the house. She had made a plum pudding and they had eaten it after the chicken she had got from the farmer up by Coundon in exchange for a day's turnip snagging. They had potatoes from the garden and sprouts, and a turnip from the farmer's field; Vera had confided that she had fallen for another baby after all this time.

Suddenly her memories were interrupted by the sound of the baby crying and Peggy was brought back to the
present. Her face was wet, she realised, as she put the bowl of broily to keep warm on the hearth and went to attend to Vera's baby.

‘Aye, well,' she told the child as she lifted her out of the drawer. ‘You'll learn, pet. Crying gets you nowt in this life.' She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron and brought a clean clout to change the baby's dripping nappy. Merry had stopped crying almost as though she understood her and was gazing at her grandmother with eyes that were already turning brown.

Peggy rocked her gently. ‘Aye, you're a bonny bairn,' she sang softly and with the baby on one arm warmed more milk for her feed. Tomorrow she would have to go to a chemist's and see if she could get a rubber teat – she already had a medicine bottle that would do. She'd scoured it well under the pump, but for now she would have to spoon the milk into the baby's mouth.

Peggy opened the door of the little house on the end of the row and the wind howled in. Snow had piled against the door in a solid block but now bits fell inside. She would have to dig a path to where she had Nannie stabled in an empty house opposite. Well, she might as well get started. Bringing the fire shovel from the back kitchen she set to shovelling snow, closing the door behind her as soon as she had enough room. Methodically she worked her way past the frozen pump to the house and finally was able to open the door.

Nannie was lying on the thin pile of straw she had managed to get the animal for bedding. She didn't move as Peggy went in. Bending, she felt the goat – she was cold, very cold but she was alive. Peggy brought some wisps of hay for her to eat and Nannie chomped on them weakly.