Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

Hugh still worked the mines along with Dicken and Will, but Will needed his wages for Lizzie-Ann, and they were saving as best they could. But Hugh was getting a bad reputation as a drunkard. Poor Dicken not only did his own job of shovelling, but he hacked the coal face too, his father’s job. Hugh was perpetually drunk, but Dicken never confronted him — he worked without a word of complaint. He went to the pub with his father, watched him waste the hardearned money that rightly belonged to Dicken, but he could say nothing. The Old Lion was losing his roar, his shoulders were bent and his face was always filthy. At night he staggered home, leaning on his eldest son for support.

Dicken was worn to a frazzle, and he knew the managers were beginning to talk. The ‘measurers’ had been round — the men who counted the coal trams and picked over the contents to see if there were any stones or clay clods making up extra weight. The miners were paid by the tram-load so if the loads were down so were the wages. The wage for boys under fifteen was one shilling and sixpence a day, and over fifteen it climbed up by a few pennies a day. A twenty-one-year-old boy, even when married like Will, still only received three shillings a day.

The miners’ wages were scaled according to the job. There were truck-weighers, coal tram-weighers, engineers, stokers, tenders, strikers, lampmen, cogmen, banksmiths, rubbish-tippers, greasers, screeners, trimmers, labourers, small-coal pickers, doorboys, hitchers, hauliers, firemen … but the elite, who worked the big veins of the mines, were the colliers, the men who hacked and chipped away at the coal. They worked in teams of two, and were completely dependent on each other. One hacked and chipped, one shovelled and filled the trams behind them, as they burrowed like moles deeper and deeper into the face. If the shoveller sat down, too lazy or too tired, then the chipper would have to lay off too. Dicken had been working for both himself and his Da. He knew it would be found out and could not continue. That night, as they came up from the cradle, the manager called them over. They went into the office and stood, caps in hand, like guilty schoolboys. The manager, Benjamin Howells, was sorry — he didn’t like doing what he was going to do. He had known Hugh Jones since he was a boy, he’d been at Dicken’s christening in the chapel.

Ben spoke in Welsh — maybe he thought it would soften the blow — but it hammered down anyway. Hugh was given his employment cards and Dicken, of course, stood by his father and wanted his. Ben tried to reason with him, but Dicken was adamant so Ben handed them their cards and the week’s wages kept in hand, and the two men walked out. Ben sighed. What a waste to see a man like Hugh go to pieces; it was tragic. And the worst of it was, it looked like he was dragging that fine boy down with him.

Dicken and his Da were both getting drunk, drowning their sorrows. They called for drinks all round, banging on the bar for their pints. Dicken rose to his feet, weaving, and began to sing. He had a clear, high tenor, and stood with legs apart, eyes closed, while his beautiful voice soared.

Mike pushed open the bar door and stood framed in the doorway, looked first at his brother then his father. His boots were so highly polished you could see your face in them. He swung his haversack down and Dicken lurched into his arms.

‘Mike, is it you, lad? Mike … Da, will you look who’s back, an’ all togged out in his fine uniform.’

Hugh fell off his stool and climbed up, gripping the edge of the bar for support.

‘A drink, get a drink for my lad, the soldier boy.’

Mike could smell Hugh’s breath — he reeked and his clothes were stained and filthy. He shook his head and looked at Dicken.

‘Mun, he’s drunk out of his mind.’

Mike soon discovered that since his Ma’s death their father had rarely been sober.

Evelyne checked the stew and left the pan half on the stove. She knew they would be late again. She had hoped to go and see Doris, but she had not had even a minute to herself for weeks. Lizzie-Ann was no help in the house; if there was work to do she swooned.

‘Oh God, I can’t, Evie, not in my condition. A woman in my condition should not lift nothing heavy, I don’t want to have a baby like little Davey, now do I?’

While poor Evelyne washed and scrubbed, Lizzie-Ann sat with her feet up. It was true she made Evelyne laugh, especially when she put flour over her face and blacked her eyelids and lips like Theda Bara. She could do endless movie-star impersonations.

‘You know, soon as I’ve had this baby, I’m going to London,’ she would say.

The lodger, a coloured gentleman, fascinated Lizzie-Ann. She would ask him to turn his palms over and then shriek with delight at the pinkness of them. Josh Walker was a kind-hearted man whose family lived in Leeds, like many coloureds who had arrived in the village. There was hardly a house left in the village without a lodger of some kind, Italian, Indian, black … well, there was one house. Doris Evans kept her four rooms to herself. The war, everyone said, was taking their men and replacing them with outsiders.

That night Dicken and Mike carried their Da home between them. Evelyne was so happy to see her brother that she forgot about going to see Doris. Somehow she made the stew go round, pushed her worries away. Tomorrow was another day and she’d manage to get a little meat from the butcher.

‘Evie, want to walk awhile with me?’

Mike smiled, slipping their mother’s old shawl around his sister’s shoulders.

‘I’ll be gone by morning, going to France. I’ll write to you, and send you pretty things … oh, Evie, Evie, come here.’

She went into his arms and held him tight. She loved him so, she thought her heart would break.

‘Dicken’s coming with me. Now shush, it has to be, they lost their jobs at the mine, this way he’ll be able to send money home, and me too … but what of you? You’re so thin, and I swear you look older, older than you should …’ Mike could not say how he really felt, how sad he was to see his sister so gaunt, so pale. It was obvious to him that she was working herself into an early grave.

‘It’ll be for the best, Evie. With me and Dicken gone it should ease the burden on you. You have a lad? Someone that’s courting you?’

She hung her head as she walked alongside him, flushing bright red. ‘Be off with you, Mike, there’s no boy interested in me, an’ I’m too young yet even to be looking.’

Mike pulled her to him and kissed the top of her head.

‘You are special, Evie. Tell you what I’ll do, I’ll bring a handsome soldier home for you on my next leave.’

The two boys were dressed and ready. Evelyne slipped into the kitchen, afraid they would go without saying goodbye. Dicken ruffled her hair, but he was close to tears. ‘Take care of Da for us, we’ll be back.’

Mike smiled and blew her a kiss, as hand-in-hand with Dicken she walked them to the door. ‘Evie, think about seeing that schoolteacher. You’ll have more time now, promise me?’

She smiled but couldn’t speak, she was too close to tears.

‘Goodbye, darlin’, and God bless you.’

She watched her two brothers walk down the cobbled street, their arms about each other’s shoulders. Will came and stood behind her, put his arms around her, ‘So they’ve gone. Da was too drunk to understand last night; I’ll tell him.’

Deep down he knew his own days at home were numbered, he could be called up at any time.

Six months had passed since the schoolteacher’s visit, and Evelyne popped a note through Doris’ door. She had worked out how many hours a week she would be able to spend with Doris, although it had not been easy to arrange. Lizzie-Ann refused to take charge of little Davey so Mrs Pugh had promised to look after him.