The Legacy l-1 Page 2

‘Come on, Evie, kick yer legs up, come on gel…’ ‘Will you really be going to London, Lizzie?’ ‘Didn’t I just say I wuz? Oh, look, there’s Dirty Jed, I’ll bet a farthing I’ll get a lemon sherbert outta him for showing me knickers.’

  Evelyne poured the water from the buckets into a big iron pan balanced on the coal fire. Will grinned at his little sister as he stripped off his working clothes and she ducked under his arm to fill the tin bath. She loved bath time — loved the laughs and the warmth of the big old kitchen. Will was a strapping lad with curly, dark auburn hair, and black as his face was it still couldn’t hide his rosy cheeks. He had a tooth missing where he had fallen down in the pit and it gave him a cheeky little-boy look, but he was a devil when it came to teasing her.

  ‘Look at her stick legs, Mike,’ Will said to his younger brother, ‘it’s a wonder they don’t snap.’

  Evelyne slapped him with the newspaper she was laying on the floor. Clouds of coal dust filled the air as the boys dropped their work clothes into the box and Evelyne pushed it under the table. Mike gave her a friendly pat on the bottom.

  ‘An’ she hasn’t got a bum either, but I love ‘er, I love ‘er.’

  Mike always tried to be like his brother Will, but in truth he was as reserved and shy as Evelyne. Today had been his first day down the pit, and he was so tired she had to hold his hand to help him step into the bath. He moaned as he squatted in the water.

  ‘Give us a yell, gel, when he’s through. I’ll be out in the yard.’

  ‘Won’t you help me get Mike clean, Will? You’ll have time before supper to go a-courting.’

  They all knew that Will was stuck on Lizzie-Ann, but, good-natured as ever, Will nodded, picked up the old sheet and ripped a piece off. He touched Mike’s back, which was raw from rubbing against the coal surface, and noticed that his elbows were bleeding and there were lumps on each side of his head.

  ‘You did well, our Mike, now get yerself clean. Do it this way.’

  He twisted the piece of sheet into a point, dipped it in the water.

  ‘We do our faces first, mind, roll the corner into a point, wet it, and stuff it into yer eyes, then yer nose and ears … always do this first, while the sheet’s clean.’

  Mike prodded and sneezed and coughed, his skin felt as if it was crawling.

  ‘Aw, put yer back into it, lad, or you’ll not get the muck off … Evie, give him a hand, he’s so tired out he’s lost his strength.’

  When she had helped Mike get clean, Evelyne rushed out to refill the buckets. The kitchen was steaming and five times she went to the tap. She never blushed to see her naked brothers, nor were they shy at her scrubbing their backs with a pumice stone. They bawled at her for being too rough, splashed her when she was too gentle. She had seen her Ma bathe her Da since she was able to toddle, and had shared bath-time duties since she was strong enough to carry a bucket of water.

  Mike stood up, dripping, and held out his arms for the sheet that served as a towel. She wrapped it around him and held his warm body for a moment. He was much younger than her other brothers, and his face puckered as he stepped out of the tub. Blood was running down his legs in rivulets from his knobbly knees, and Evelyne looked up into his face.

  ‘You all right, Mike? Shall I get the disinfectant?’

  ‘No, I can’t stand the stinging.’

  Sighing, Will eased his body into the water.

  ‘My God it feels good, don’t it, Mike? Ahhh, this makes it all worthwhile, will you soap me back, gel?’

  As she rubbed his back, she could feel the scars under her fingers. Mike sat huddled by the fire and watched her, and she gave him one of their secret, intimate smiles. He looked down, his long eyelashes looked as if they were resting on his cheeks.

  ‘Did Lizzie-Ann ask about me?’

  Evelyne scrubbed and soaped, her skirt sopping.

  ‘She did mention that she couldn’t sleep for thinking about a certain person with no front tooth. Could that be you, our Will?’

  ‘Is that the truth, gel? Aw, yer having me on, but if you get the chance tell her what a fine-looking man I am naked.’

  With a mock gasp of shock, Evelyne slapped him. He stood up and took the towel from her, wrapping it around his waist. He was indeed a fine-looking boy, even with the tooth missing.

  Evelyne busied herself setting the table and pouring away the dirty bath water. Will brushed his hair, saying he would just parade on the front doorstep for a while.

  ‘Will you get dressed, Mike, lovey, you don’t want to catch cold now?’

  Mike looked furtively around to see if Will had left the room then turned back to the fire. His voice was soft, lilting.

  ‘It’s so black, Evie, it’s indescribable. You push your hand out to feel it, and it goes right through the solid blackness. There is no gleam of light, no shadow. It is so black — like a massive weight on you, all around you as hard on the eyes as bright light.’

  He was worn out, and afraid, she could feel it, but it was unspoken. He did not look at her, knowing that she knew. He was only three years older than Evelyne.

  ‘Will, Will, supper’s on the table now, come on.’

  Evelyne set down the steaming bowls of stew, the big chunks of fresh bread. The two boys ate hungrily, washing the food down with gulps of scalding tea. There was a jug of ale, too, and that went down fast, but the dust stayed deep in their lungs. They were still eating when there was a rap on the back door.

  ‘I were just passin’ an’ wondered how yer Mike got along on his first day?’

  Old Peg-Leg Thomas hobbled in, grinning a toothless smile, his hand already out for a mug of tea. He gasped and heaved for breath, but he rolled a cigarette as soon as he had sunk into the most comfortable fireside chair.

  ‘Who’s yer butty-mum?’

  Mike wiped his mouth and told him it was Danny Williams.

  ‘Ahhh, now there’s a good butty-mum … yer know, if yer get allocated a butty that don’t know the ropes then yer can spend maybe two years learning what should’ve been taught yer in the first week, an’ there’s the truth. Good butty, Danny Williams, knows what’s what, you got a good lad ter teach yer … is there another drop of tea fer me?’

  Evelyne wiped her plate with some bread, washed it, and refilled it from the stewpan. She poured a fresh mug of tea and loaded a small tin tray.

  Her mother, Mary, was lying in the big double bed. Hanging from the ceiling and all around the room were sheets drying and the men’s work clothes washed for the following day. The bedroom was above the kitchen, so the big fire kept the room hot and stuffy. Mary was dozing, her thick black hair loose, her cheeks flushed, and Evelyne saw she was sweating. Softly, she put the tray down, and went to the washstand, rinsed a cloth and crept quietly to Mary’s side. Evelyne mopped her mother’s brow as gently as she could, but Mary stirred, opened her eyes and smiled. Evelyne helped her to sit up.

  Mary was in her ninth month, and very ungainly. The baby made a huge mound in the centre of the bed, a mound that didn’t seem to belong to the woman who carried it. Mary’s once-strong arms were thin, her hands bony, as was the rest of her body apart from her belly. It was as if all her strength and energy had been drawn from her and given to the unborn child. Evelyne propped up the pillows behind her Ma, and Mary leaned back. As Evelyne put the tray carefully on the bed, she noticed the tea and bread she had brought earlier had not been touched.

  ‘How’s our Mike, he get on all right, Evie?’

  Evelyne nodded and began to tidy the room, patted the drying sheets.

  ‘Are you feeling any better, Ma? You not been sick?’

  She watched as Mary used both hands to lift the mug of tea.

  ‘You eat the stew if you can, Ma, you need your strength.’

  ‘Get along with you, Evie Jones, treating me like I was a baby.’ Mary lifted the spoon and tried to eat but couldn’t, she felt too exhausted. ‘Spend some time with Mike tonight, it’s always bad on their first day. I’ll maybe finis
h my supper later … have you been in to see little Davey?’

  ‘I’ll go to him now. You try and eat, Ma, there’s not too much salt is there?’

  Mary put her hand out to take her daughter’s, gripped it tight. ‘You’re a good daughter, and the stew’s just perfect… I’ll have a little rest now.’

  She felt so weary, and her eyes closed. She was more than worried, she’d not felt as bad as this even with little Davey.

  Little Davey was in his cot, his nappy wet, his shining face red and blotchy. He banged his rattle against the sides of the cot. Evelyne picked him up. The sheets were sodden, she’d have to wash them out in the morning. She put Davey on the floor while she changed the bedding and grabbed him just before he crawled out of the door, laid him on her knee and took off his wet things. The little fellow lolled in her lap, sucked her arm. She held him close, smelling his baby smell, his soft, downy hair. Little Davey was always happy, gurgling away, but his lolling head and drooping mouth revealed that he was spastic. The full extent of his problem was not yet defined, old Doc Clock putting it down to Davey being just that bit backward. Davey was three years old, but he could not walk by himself or say more than ‘Dada-dada’ …

  By the time Evelyne had cleared the table and washed the dishes, filled the kettle for the tea caddies in the morning, it was nine o’clock. She made sandwiches for her brothers, packing them in their tins. The mines were plagued with rats so all food had to be carefully packed. She then washed the rest of her brothers’ clothes. They had already gone to bed as they had to be up at four for the five o’clock shift. Their beds would be taken by their Da and their eldest brother Dicken when they came home from the night shift.

  It was after ten before Evelyne had a moment to sit alone by the big kitchen fire. Her eyes were red-rimmed from tiredness, she could hardly see her school books. She read by the firelight, careful not to get dust on the books that Doris Evans had lent her. This was Evelyne’s favourite time, the only time of the day or night when she could be alone. She treasured it, hungered for it, and used it. This was when she did her writing, when she could dream her dreams.

  Mary woke and tried to ease her bulk into a more comfortable position. She sighed, this was one she could well do without, especially with Davey as he was. As she turned she saw Evelyne standing by the bedroom window. She said nothing, just lay and watched her daughter brushing her hair. ‘You awake, Mama?’

  ‘I am, lovely, I was just looking at you. Like a mermaid you are.’

  Evelyne slipped into the big bed beside her mother.

  ‘It won’t be too long then I’ll be back on my feet.’

  Evelyne snuggled closer, loving the smell of her mother. She kissed Mary’s neck then looked up anxiously.

  ‘I’m not too close, am I? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable … can I feel your belly?’

  Mary laid her daughter’s hand on her stomach, so she might feel the baby kick.

  ‘Can you feel him? He’s a big one.’

  Gently, Evelyne ran her small hand over the swollen belly, then she yawned and her eyes began to droop.

  ‘Goodnight, Mama, sleep tight, mind the bugs don’t bite.’

  Mary eased her body into a more comfortable position and Evelyne’s hand slipped away as she fell into exhausted sleep. Mary stared at the ceiling, imagining mermaids reaching to her from beneath crystal-clear water.

  ‘I’ve never even seen the sea.’

  Her own voice startled her, as if she had spoken to herself from the grave, and she was enveloped by an overpowering sense of loss. She sighed a deep, shuddering sigh, and two tears, like dew on a flower petal, slipped down her gaunt cheeks.

  In the cold light of dawn Mary could just make out the fading photograph of herself. She was not alone, she was standing arm-in-arm with Hugh Jones on their wedding day. The love she still felt for Hugh couldn’t warm her. Her whole body felt as if it was growing colder and colder. ‘Where did I go?’ she wondered. ‘When was I last just Mary? Not Ma, not wife, but Mary.’ She couldn’t remember, and the harder she tried the deeper became her sense of loss. She wept because she couldn’t remember herself, could hardly remember a time when she wasn’t tired, when she wasn’t carrying or worrying about one child or another. Had her whole life just been rearing children? Cooking, washing, bak ing? When was the last time she had been up the mountain?

  The pieces fell together in her mind like a jagged jigsaw puzzle. The blazing colours, the flowers … Mary remembered, oh, the mountains … the green fields, the clear, ice-cold water. Havod, the wondrous gardens at Havod, the peacocks. Then, like a picture postcard she saw herself as she had been before all these worn years. She was so free, so carefree, and she was laughing … her big, blown-up body felt light … she was running like a hare, running on long, strong legs, a bunch of wild flowers in her hand, throwing them up into the bright, warm, blue sky, they were cornflowers …

  Then there was Hughie Jones. She saw him as he had been all those years ago, so tall golden they had nicknamed him ‘The Lion’. Hugh was the one she had set her sights on, although he was a real lady-killer with all the girls chasing him. But Mary had been the one, the only one, to give him not so much as the bat of an eye in church. She had felt his eyes on her, and when they all congregated outside the Salvation Army Hall she had turned to her friend and in a voice just loud enough for Hugh to hear she said, ‘Well, I’m going for a walk, going up the mountain.’ No one had wanted to join her, they talked of going to play the piano and have a sing-song. So Mary had gone to the mountain alone. She knew he was following her, way behind and below, but she behaved as if she was completely alone. She found a secluded spot, bathed in warm sunshine, and lay down with the flowers around her, the blue sky and bright sun above. He was close, she could feel him coming closer, but she kept her eyes tight shut. She knew when he sat down only a few feet away, but still she kept her eyes closed. It seemed an age, and when eventually she opened them he had made a crown of cornflowers, and handed it to her. She slipped it on her head and they looked into each other’s eyes.

  It was not done for a girl to make the first move, or even be out for too long a time with a young man, a young man who hadn’t even been courting her, a young man who had hardly said two words to her, let alone one with the reputation of Hugh Jones. They said not a word — he just sat there and she lay back with the crown of cornflowers on her head. Her hands were at her sides and she could feel the cool grass between her fingers. She began to wonder if he would speak at all, or if he would just get up and walk away. When she opened her eyes he was leaning up on one elbow, staring into her face.

  She smiled, but he continued to stare as he slowly threaded his fingers through hers. Still keeping his distance from her, his huge hand covered hers completely … then he lay back and closed his eyes, holding her hand tight. Mary raised herself on her elbow and looked at his handsome face. His hair was a thick, curly mane, blond, yet his eyelashes were almost black. She bent closer and closer, and in one sudden move he pulled her on top of him, held her face and kissed her. She had expected him to be rough, to kiss her like Joe Scuttles had when he grabbed her on New Year’s Eve. Hugh’s kiss was sweeter, and so gentle her body ached to pull him tighter to her. He laughed, his eyes twinkled, and the dimple in his chin deepened. Then he stood up, scooping her in his arms and carried her to the steep drop of the mountainside and she clung to him. She knew he was teasing, but he took her closer and closer to the precipice.

  ‘Marry me, Mary, or I’ll throw you over the mountainside, because if you don’t I’ll not let another man touch thee. You belong to me.’

  Mary clung to him, burying her face in his big, broad shoulder and kissed his neck. There had been no need to speak of love, no courtship, no arguments with the families. They were destined for each other.

  The village said that Mary had tamed the wild lion. Stories of what Hugh Jones had been up to, and with whom, were passed around and several girls wept themselves into puff
y, red-eyed misery. The prize had been caught by Mary, the quiet one — a dark horse if ever there was one, with her big brown eyes and lanky legs. She’d never even said as much as two words to the lad. The truth was there’d been no ‘taming’, simply a mutual recognition that they belonged together. Everyone said it wouldn’t last without even a few weeks’ courtship for them to get to know each other. Of course, some said she had to get married — the wild one must have got her in the family way — but that wasn’t true either.

  Eventually even the most sceptical had to button her mouth, because the couple seemed so contented, so happy, with no need of the social life of the village. They kept themselves to themselves, and were the envy of many other couples. Hugh Jones never stopped off at the pub on his way home from the mine with the other lads. He would be up and out of the cage faster than anyone else as soon as the hooter sounded the shift’s end. At home he would be building, sawing, painting, and if anyone so much as hinted that he would go back to his old ways, Hugh’s temper would flare up and no one in his right mind ever wanted that. Memories of Hugh with his shirtsleeves rolled up, taking on any comer at fist fighting, even the gypsy travellers, were as clear as day. Hugh had been the source of much gossip in his wild days, but the gypsy fight was the one the village remembered best.

  No one could recall the reason, it had been so long ago. It was a blazing hot day in August when, as Peg-Leg Thomas remembered, three gypsies had called on Hugh’s invalid father. They had come to exact some kind of vengeance and they weren’t just any old travellers, they were from the Romany clan that sold the pit ponies to the mine. They would arrive in midsummer every other year, with their wagons and trailers and roped lines of ponies. Once they had set up camp the women would go from house to house selling pegs and ribbons. Some, with their bright skirts and headbands, would be invited in to read the tea leaves or the worn, red palms of the miners’ wives.

  It was always an occasion, and if they were there on a Sunday, they would set up a small fair. The children were warned not to go too near to the camp or the gypsies, as no one could ever really trust them. On this particular Sunday, according to Peg-Leg, three gypsies, all wearing their smart suits and brightly coloured neckerchiefs, walked down Elspeth Street. Their arms were linked and they knocked any passer-by out of the way with a shrug. It was whispered that the man in the middle was descended from the Romany king himself. Proud, their black eyes expressionless, they were the real Romantishels. They seemed almost to skip, their steps as light as if walking on air. Peg-Leg said you could always tell a gyppo by the spring in his walk.