Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

Gladys simpered coyly and looked up at Hugh, then spoke to Evelyne, ‘We thought you might get uppity, another woman in your kitchen, but you’ve made us very welcome, Evie.’

Evelyne looked down at her plate. The scones were terrible, she could hardly get her teeth through hers. Hugh coughed.

‘Ah well, I’ve not actually told her, we’ll announce it in chapel next week, but we are unofficially engaged to be married, that right, Gladys?’

Somehow Evelyne found her voice and said stiffly that she was very happy for them. The soft, powdered cheek brushed Evelyne’s, and she got a close-up view of the silly crochet work on Gladys’ hat. Evelyne wanted to cry out. How could her Da want this silly woman?

Gladys insisted on staying with Hugh to wash the dishes, and Evelyne showed Willie into the front room. Willie sat on the sofa and gave her a wide smile. ‘She’s a good woman, Aunt Glad … Evie, will you sit beside me?’

‘My name’s Evelyne … so, you’re here looking for work, is that right? You’ll not find any, and there’s the strike coming, you should go back to Glamorgan, or Cardiff even.’

He shrugged, took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one, blowing out the smoke and crossing his legs.

‘Do you know Cardiff then, Willie?’

She caught his sly glance, and noticed that he flicked his ash on to her polished lino.

‘I’ve been there, but I prefer it here.’

She was one hundred per cent sure it was him, any doubts had disappeared and she boiled with anger at what he had done.

Hugh interrupted the tense moment. ‘Right, Evie, will you be at the meeting? They’ll be arriving any moment, Gladys is setting out the books … an’ you too, Willie, it’s important tonight.’

Hugh stood before the fire with his trousers almost sizzling.

‘No man’s takin’ these decisions lightly, for Lord’s sake, mun. You think I for one dunno what hardships we’re all headin’ for?’

Harry Jones jabbed the air with his finger and demanded to know if Hugh could face starving women, never mind starving kids. Hugh sighed and rubbed his hair until it stood on end. ‘Jesus Christ, mun, I know that even the most tenacious strikers are giving way, but…’

Hugh had heard the word ‘tenacious’ on the wireless and now used it at every opportunity. The others stopped arguing for a moment as he explained what he meant. Harry muttered that he didn’t give a bugger who was ‘tenacled’ or not, all he knew was his kids were starving, and he had to work to put a crust into their mouths. Hugh banged his fist against the mantel. Intensive union activity had taken its toll not only on him but on four others who were blacklisted. Again his voice rose as he told the men that there were some working with their union badges sewn into their collars for fear of the managers knowing they were members.

Taffy Rawlins twisted his cap and blurted out, ‘Lot o’ men tried workin’ in other collieries. Soon as it was discovered they was union men, none of ‘em could get taken on.’

Harry Jones rose to his feet, jabbing the air with a stubby finger. ‘Ay, an’ rumour ‘as it, any man what’s a member has ‘is name circ’lated from the union roster.

They’ll never get work, not now the strike is on, not when it’s over.’

Taffy was at it again, waving his cap. ‘I believe, Hugh Jones, an’ there’s many that says I’m right, your union is bloody destroying a man’s right ta work.’

Dramatically, Hugh tore off his threepenny-piece-sized union badge and held it up above his head.

‘If we don’t join this union now, if we don’t pull together, you’ll all be no better than the pit ponies left down the mines to rot. The managers, the owners, don’t give a hang whether a man dies or not, they’re more worried about losing a dram than they are about any man.’ Hugh’s voice was earshattering in the hot, stuffy, confined kitchen. ‘You lose a dram o’coal, mun, and what happens? The buggers make you pay for it. But when have they paid for a man’s life? The proprietors know the men are weak, that they have no organization so they can do what the hell they like. The pit manager can sack when he pleases, and the poor bugger can do nothing about it, and they’d hardly pay him a penny … Am I right, tell me?’

Throughout the meeting Gladys took copious notes for the minutes. Willie paid little attention, picking his teeth with a match and yawning. Evelyne kept feeling his eyes on her but refused to return his stare.

At last the meeting broke up and Evelyne packed what food was left over from tea and slipped it to Taffy for his kids. Hugh walked Gladys home, still arguing with Harry. Willie made no move to leave with his aunt, sitting in Hugh’s chair by the fire. ‘I just seen there’s a good film at the pictures, Evie, last show’s at nine, fancy an outing?’

Evelyne folded her arms. ‘My name’s Evelyne to you, son, or Miss Jones. And if you want some advice I’d clear out.’

Willie looked completely unabashed. He propped his feet on the fireguard.

‘That’s none too friendly, considerin’ we’ll be related soon.’

Evelyne would have liked to swipe his gloating face.

‘I’ve no intention of makin’ a friend of you, none at all, and I don’t want you in this house again, now out… go on, hop it.’

His piggy eyes glinted, and he slowly removed his feet from the fireguard. He looked at her, and she could almost see the wheels churning round in his flushed head.

‘Way I hear it, you should think yourself lucky bein’ asked out, there’s not many lads left in the village. There’s plenty of young girls panting to go to the pictures so don’t put yourself out, Miss Schoolteacher.’

Evelyne watched the cocky boy saunter out, and she restrained herself from aiming a blow at the back of his stocky, flushed neck. As the door closed behind him, Evelyne went to fetch her heavy coat. She wrapped a scarf around her neck and slipped out the back way. She didn’t want anyone to see her, to know where she was going.

The gypsies were just setting up their camp, the wagons and trailers drawn up in a semicircle, a group of men erecting the big, round living tents. A fire blazed in the centre of the ring, and a few children were hanging round, wearing cotton dresses and thin, threadbare woollies. Although barefooted they seemed hardly to notice the cold, but they noticed Evelyne striding up the hill. She’d opened up her coat as she was warm from the long walk, and her cheeks flushed pink from the evening air.

A runny-nosed little boy with huge, dark eyes watched her, a brooding look on his tiny face, then he put out his hand.

‘Give us a penny, come on missus, just a copper, we’re starvin’ hungry.’

Evelyne looked down at the tiny boy already adept at begging, and showed him her empty pockets.

‘Is Freedom with you, boy? I need to talk with Freedom.’

At that moment a woman with a shawl wrapped around her appeared from behind the bushes. She grabbed the child by the hair and walloped him, with a cold, angry look at Evelyne.

‘There’s no one of that name here.’ The children ran like hell away from the sharp-tongued woman, the little boy looking back at Evelyne. She went nearer to the camp, and now the men turned and stared with the expressionless, unnerving faces. She stood looking around, then spoke loudly, her voice echoing.

‘I need to speak with Freedom, is he here with you?’

They made no reply, just turned their backs and continued working. Women passed hooded looks to one another and she saw two men talking together in sign

language.

‘I know he’s with you and I have to talk with him.’ A grey-haired man, wearing clothes fit for a scare-crow, shuffled towards her. He came within about six feet of her and showed his toothless, shiny gums as he spoke.