Stranger At The Door, Day18

Looking at his wife’s stricken face, Pate thought it best to change the course of the conversation

Mary Ellen poked the fire in the range into a blaze, then sat back to enjoy the last cup of tea of the day with Pate. No matter how busy she was, she always tried to give the last hour of the day to her husband and shut out the rest of the world.

“Daniel came by for a wee while when ye were oot on yer travels,” Pate said after he had lit his pipe. “We had a rare chat aboot auld times at the pit.

“I was tellin’ him that the colonel’s faither was a hard man but a fair yin. An’ he kept a better eye on the manager than the colonel does.”

Mary Ellen agreed. “That’s for sure. But the colonel’s faither had a sensible wife – no’ like that silly wee cratur the colonel married.”

Pate nodded. “Away in foreign parts again, Daniel tells me. An’ Rushforth’s never whaur he should be.”

Mary Ellen sighed. “There’s a bit o’ bother boilin’ up, right enough,” she said. “I’ve heard some o’ the women talkin’ about it. Somethin’ about the pay.

“The men put up the tonnage like Rushforth asked, but there wasna a penny extra in the pay packets. There’s bad feelin’ a’ ower Langrigg.”

“It’s worse than that, Mary Ellen. The main seam the men are workin’ on isna safe. Broken pit props, two or three wee roof falls – nothin’ serious, but signs.”

Concern

He paused and Mary Ellen glanced at him in concern, knowing that the memory of the day he’d had his accident were flooding back. She was relieved when Pate began to speak again.

“But they’re no’ goin’ to take it lyin’ doon,” he said. “There’s been a meetin’ at the pit gates an’ there’s a bigger yin in the plannin’.”

“That’s a’ talk.” Mary Ellen was sceptical. “Aye, talk o’ a strike, Mary Ellen.” Pate’s wife stared at him.

“It takes a leader to work the men up to a strike,” she said at last. “An’ it takes a leader to persuade the womenfolk to try to feed bairns without a pay comin’ in.”

“I think they have a leader, Mary Ellen.” Pate stared into the fire as he spoke. “The laddie that spoke to the men at the pit gates. The laddie that’s no’ feart o’ Rushforth.”

Mary Ellen stared at him in something approaching horror.

“No’ Daniel?”

Pate nodded. “He’s his father’s son, that’s for sure.”

For once, Mary Ellen was stunned into silence, fear coursing through her at the thought of Daniel and Sarah, of their plans for the future, the ambitions that would be crushed underfoot if Daniel incited the men of Langrigg to strike.

Looking at his wife’s stricken face, Pate thought it best to change the course of the conversation.

“Ach, it’ll a’ die away in a week or two, I expect. When the colonel gets back, he’ll set things right,” he said. “I telt the laddie that.

“Telt him aboot the colonel’s father shuttin’ doon the seam where I had the accident. Fu’ o’ coal, it was, but when it killed a man an’ left me...” he tapped his knee “... auld Mr Grant didna hesitate.”

There was a companionable silence as Pate related the rest of his conversation with Daniel.

“Aye, he wants to be a minin’ engineer. He’d make a guid engineer, Mary Ellen. You should hear the questions he asks. He has a feel for the engineerin’ side o’ things, right enough.”

Restless

The colonel’s sister, Bunty Grant, was restless. It was barely an hour since she’d had breakfast and already the day was bearing down on her like a leaden weight. It had all started so well, she reflected.

A fine morning, chilly but bright, had tempted her outside to take Thor and Vulcan for a bracing long walk, only to be caught in a squall on the way back and soaked.

Then she’d been greeted by the disgruntled housekeeper, Mrs Goudie, banging serving dishes down on the dining-room table and agitating about getting a girl in to help her with what she called “the rough work”.

Mrs Goudie had then embarked on a theatrical display of cleaning the mud spatters left by Bunty’s boots on the hall floor and by Thor and Vulcan rubbing against the walls.

“It’s this gloomy weather,” she told her father’s picture on the wall. “Puts everybody in a foul mood.

“I wish I was in Venice – even with Fleur taking an attack of the vapours every five minutes,” she added.

She stared at the fireplace, yesterday’s ashes spilling over on to the hearth, knowing that any moment now Mrs Goudie would descend on the room, brandishing a bucket and brush and complaining about cleaning out fireplaces being rough work.

Hastily, she rounded up Thor and Vulcan, who was leaving deep scratches on the door in his anxiety to get out.

“It’s the back porch for you till the rain goes off,” she said firmly.

On her way to the back door, she met a glum Mrs Goudie. “Mr Goudie’s waitin’ for you in the kitchen,” she told Bunty. Bunty sighed.

“He’s got a complaint. An’ the postman’s been. There’s a letter for you on the kitchen table,” was Mrs Goudie’s parting shot.

“Bad news, I suppose, the way things are going,” Bunty muttered. Ned Goudie stood in the kitchen, arms folded, face like thunder.

“As ye’re weel aware, Miss Bunty, Ah’m no’ yin for complainin’.” Bunty said nothing. “But that laddie the colonel got in t’ help me is nae use tae man nor beast.”

“The gardener’s boy?” Bunty could feel the beginnings of a headache.

“That’s his title, right enough,” he replied. “But he kens nothin’ aboot a gairden. Takes advantage o’ the colonel’s guid nature. There’s nae sign o’ him this mornin’.

Indignation

“Supposed tae be in charge o’ the stables, seein’ he likes exercisin’ the twa horses. But muckin’ oot? Doesna like that. That’s hard graft.”

There was a pause while Mr Goudie regained his breath.

Bunty sighed. “I suppose I’d better speak to him,” she said. Mr Goudie seemed to inflate to twice his normal size with indignation.

“Ye’ll hae to find him first,” he snapped. “He’s awa’ hame. No’ comin’ back, he tells me. An’ you should see the state o’ thae stables.”

Bunty took a deep breath.

“I’ll give the matter my attention, Mr Goudie. Meantime, turn the two horses out into the paddock, and if you can find some casual labour from one of the farms around, I’ll pay a man by the day.

“That’ll tide you over until we find somebody reliable to help you.”

Mr Goudie seemed satisfied.

“Right,” he said. “Ah’ll away and dae the muckin’ oot mysel’. An’ if that laddie comes back, Ah’ll send him ower t’you. You can send him doon the road.”

More on Monday.

This story was originally written specially for The People’s Friend, which published it under the title The Life We Choose. There’s more fiction in The People’s Friend every week, available from newsagents and supermarkets at £1.30.

Artwork: Andrew Lloyd Jones