Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

Her feet echoing on the cobbles caused a few curtains to nutter, and someone whispered, ‘Evelyne Jones is back’. She hurried on, passing Doris Evans’ house. Lizzie-Ann was just opening her bedroom curtains, and almost called out, but she clamped her hand across her mouth. ‘Oh God, please don’t say she wants her house …’

But the hunched figure kept on walking, looking neither to right nor left.

‘She’s going up to the grave,’ Mrs Pugh murmured as she peered from behind her back-yard wall. All around were the sounds of the village waking, preparing for the morning shift, buckets clanking, clogs clattering. The mine spewed forth its blackened men, doors opened and slammed closed as the miners set off for their day’s work. Like a shadow, Evelyne quickened her pace towards the grassy slopes, as if the clean air drew her.

‘Hurry, Evie, it’s bath time, come on, gel, get the water on.’

The church organist began his morning practice, squeezing out ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ from the old organ. Threading her way through the soot-stained tombs, she began to run. The grass, fresh with dew, glistened, the water drops holding small speckles of coal dust like black tears. Hugh Jones, Mary Jones, the stillborn baby, little Davey, all lay together in the shadow of the mountain. Will, Mike and Dicken, all gone. The grave, so tiny, so cold and grey. There was nothing for her to embrace, nothing tangible for her to hold and feel. Drained of all emotion, she stood staring at the names of her beloved family. Nothing to embrace. High on the mountain peak the sun broke, piercing the grey like a shaft of gold. Evelyne looked up and, hardly aware of what she was doing, began to run, higher, higher. She scrambled over bracken, stumbling, falling, but pushing herself on, upwards, higher, to the clean air, to the sun.

Freedom knew she would make for home. He had no thought for himself. He hitched a ride, then, to the consternation of the driver, jumped from the moving car. He ran the five miles down to the village, along the small, winding footpath, keeping up the steady, strong pace until his lungs were bursting. He saw the village below, pushed himself on. At the far end of the valley the mountain rose.

The streets were thronging with miners. Freedom was no fool; he knew what would happen if any of them caught him. He kept to the back lanes, his jacket collar turned up, his breath catching in his throat. He reached the corner of Aldergrove Road and saw a woman with three children slam the front door. Had he got confused? Was it the wrong street? He felt a tug at his sleeve and spun around.

Lizzie-Ann hugged her worn cardigan to her and stared up into his face. Her voice was strained, hoarse, ‘She’s gone up the mountain, gone crazy like her Ma.’ Backing away, she took a sly look over her shoulder, afraid to be seen talking to the gyppo. She was frightened of him.

‘There’s nothing here for her, nobody wants her back.’ She couldn’t meet his eyes.

Freedom gave her a small nod of thanks, but she turned on her heel and scuttled away before he could say a word.

Gladys Turtle was out of breath when she caught Lizzie-Ann at the water taps. ‘They say she’s back, Evie Jones, is that right?’ she gasped. ‘Have you seen her? And the gyppo? Well?’

‘By Christ, yer a moaning Minnie, Gladys Turtle, if I hadn’t two kids an’ another on the way I’d be off, now bugger off” and mind yer own business.’ Lizzie-Ann watched as the water spurting from the tap overflowed the bucket, ran over her worn, down-at-heel shoes, and trickled away down the cobbles. She whispered a prayer. ‘Don’t come back, Evie, please, oh, please …’

Although near exhaustion, Evelyne was still climbing, but now she gasped clean air into her lungs, heaving for each breath. Not far, not far now — she was almost there.

Her hair had worked loose, tumbling around her shoulders. She unbuttoned her coat. Soon she would be on the very peak, high above the valley.

Far below, Freedom began to climb. He couldn’t see her, but he had found her suitcase by the grave. Further on he found her scarf caught in a bramble bush and held it, standing poised and still, listening, shading his eyes to look up the mountain against the sun. He threw his jacket aside and moved on, his heart thudding in his chest. Alert as an animal he could sense her, knew she was not far. He climbed higher, and suddenly fear gripped him tight. He looked down — it was her coat, cast aside. For one terrible moment he thought it had been her, his manushi. He called for her, shouted. Her name echoed around emptily, no Evie answered back.

‘Evelyne … Evelyne … Evelyne!’

Rounding a shelf covered in man-sized boulders, he saw her, way above him, standing like a statue, arms up, hair blowing in the clean wind. She was turning, slowly, dangerously, her head back and eyes closed. At any moment she could fall, lose her balance. She was dancing with death.

His voice was low and soft, a whisper. ‘Is it a partner you’re wanting, Evie?’ He was terrified she would open her eyes and fall, but she smiled, head high, facing the sun. He inched towards her without a sound, closer, until he could reach out and catch her … he grabbed her by her long hair and pulled her to him. She turned on him like a wildcat, eyes blazing, and struck out at him, but he held her, took the blows … dragged her to safety, while she scratched and fought him every inch. When he had got her to a safe distance, he gripped her by the shoulders, trapping her arms at her sides … ‘Look, look, see how close you were, woman, you could have been killed.’

She struggled, kicked out at him. ‘Maybe that’s what I want, get off me, you bugger, let me alone, this is my business … It’s my life, God damn you!’

He didn’t mean to hit her so hard, her head snapped back and her mouth started to bleed. The shock made her still, calmed her.

‘You’re my life too, you’ll give yourself to no mountain.’

‘I’ll not give myself to you either, let me go!’ But she didn’t struggle any more, and he eased his hold until he simply held her in his arms. The wonder of the valley spread below them, as if only for them. He picked her up, gently, and carried her to a rock, sat her down.

‘What was his name? Your Da’s name?’

She turned her head away from him, touched her bleeding lip … after a moment she whispered his name, ‘Hugh, Hugh …’

‘Well, girl, call out to him, call as loud as you can, release it, release him …’

She shook her head, and Freedom cupped his hands to his mouth and called her Da … called for Hugh.

His voice came back with the name of her father, and she felt the tears inside. She threw her head back and, as if defying the mountain, she cried out for her father. ‘Hugh … Dal Da… Da. ‘

The echo thundered, boomed, the words meeting, joining, until the sound became a roar …

Freedom watched her, her face like a child’s as she cupped her hands to her mouth and called to the air. He let her rise, moving closer to the edge … ‘Mary … Will… Mike … Daveyyyyyyyyyyyyyy…’

She reached out to her dead, arms spread, calling to them, and when her grief broke through he was there at her side. All the tears she had not shed when she was a child, the tears for Hugh, for her family, for all of them.

She would never remember how long she had wept, only that he was there. He cradled her, rocked her like a baby and she felt safe, secure, and slowly, gradually, she was quiet.

‘I can feel your heart, manushi He laid his hand over her right breast. It felt as if it was burning through her … then he took her hand and laid it against his own heart. He laughed, lying back in the grass.

‘You laughing at me, man?’