Stranger At The Door, Day 9

Inside there was warmth, colour and the smell of fresh varnish. Sarah clapped her hands in delight

Leaving Jess to have a baking lesson from her mother, Sarah walked through the fields towards Langrigg. The sun was warm on her back as she paused to look down on the squat rows of houses. Suddenly, it seemed to have a festive air, washing lines flourishing their contents like bright banners, children playing in the street.

As she made her way to Mary Ellen’s house, she was surrounded by children eager for her attention.

“Miss Ogilvie, the Wee School’s ready. It’s braw an’ painted an’ everything.”

A little girl tugged at her skirt to get her attention; others demanded to know if she’d be their teacher at the Wee School. The place seemed much busier than during her afternoon visits, some of the womenfolk on their knees scrubbing doorsteps, one whacking men’s working clothes against the gable end of a Raw and sending up clouds of coal dust.

Sarah returned their smiles and the occasional greeting. Folk seemed less suspicious of her all of a sudden. She mentioned the fact to Mary Ellen and Pate when at last she reached their house.

“Oh, they’ve heard that the master’s away already, but you waited a while, and they’re hopin’ that you’ll stay and teach the bairns,” Mary Ellen said, bustling around to make tea for her visitor.

Conversation

The conversation was interrupted by a banshee shriek, a crash and then the sound of a slamming door. “Tricky Binnie’s been flung oot again,” Mary Ellen explained, calmly pouring the tea.

“Work shy,” Pate added. “Magrit’ll no’ stand for it much longer.” Tea drinking was interrupted by an urgent knocking on the door.

“Excuse me a wee minute,” Mary Ellen said. There was a murmured conversation on the doorstep, a man’s voice rising to querulous complaint. It was stopped by Mary Ellen, who raised her voice to something approaching a bellow.

“Pull yoursel’ thegither, Binnie, and away down to the pit office and get a start. Rushforth’s away the day and the colonel’s at the pit office, so ye have a chance. Magrit’s right. You’re no’ sick or delicate or injured – just lazy! And you wi’ a pack o’ bairns to feed.”

She shut the door with some force and came back to resume her conversation with Sarah as if nothing had happened.

The short distance round to the Back Raw and the new schoolroom took longer than usual because Mary Ellen had two calls to make. One was to deliver a jug of soup to a young mother who was awaiting the birth of her second child.

“Young Jeanie Fullarton,” Mary Ellen told her. “No’ makin’ much o’ it. And this one,” she paused to scoop up a begrimed toddler playing by the front step “is Wee Jeanie. She has her mammy run off her feet.”

The little girl beamed at Mary Ellen, then at Sarah. Her blonde curls were unkempt, her hands and face in need of a wash, but her little face was alive with mischief.

The next delivery was beef tea for Mrs Fyfe, who was, in Mary Ellen’s opinion, suffering from bloodlessness. “Three sons, a’ man-big, and there’s no’ one o’ them that’ll do a hand’s turn in the house. They come in off their shift and expect to be waited on hand and foot for the rest o’ the day. Beef tea’ll do Mrs Fyfe a world o’ good.”

Mary Ellen made a swift delivery and eventually she and Sarah reached what was already known as the Wee School.

Welcoming

The miserable, neglected house had been transformed into a welcoming place. The door and window-frames were freshly painted, there was pipe clay on the step and window ledges, and snowy lace curtains were drawn across the window.

“We dinna want any nosy folk spyin’ on the new teacher,” Mary Ellen explained.

Inside there was warmth, colour and the smell of fresh varnish. Sarah clapped her hands in delight.

“Mary Ellen,” she began, “this is just perfect. I don’t know how you managed this in such a short time.”

Mary Ellen allowed herself the slightest smile of pleasure. “Just you take a wee look round, Miss Ogilvie, and make sure that everything that’s needed is here,” she suggested.

A fire had been lit in the big black range. In front of it was one of two bright rugs, patterned with splashes of red. “Pate made these,” she added, pride in her voice. Three long benches with tables formed seating for the children. “Just the right height for the little ones.” Sarah smiled.

A kitchen table had been varnished and stood at the front. It looked much less threatening to children than the high, pulpit-like structure which had been used by Master Ogilvie.

“There’ll be a chair forbye. Daniel’s makin’ it. He’s clever at makin’ things, but he’s aye away on his long walks of an evenin’, an’ doesna put the time in that’s needed to finish it.”

Sarah looked away, feeling her cheeks burn. “What’s that, Mary Ellen? It looks like a wardrobe.”

She pointed to a large piece of furniture which all but took up the space along the back wall of the room. It was walnut, polished to a rich glow, with elaborate carving on the double doors.

“Miss Bunty gave us that. Sent it doon on a cart frae the Big House. It’s a wardrobe, right enough, but look inside.” Sarah opened one of the doors. Inside, there was neat shelving.

“Daniel did that.” Mary Ellen smiled. “Made it inta the teacher’s cupboard. It’ll keep everything neat and tidy. A’ we need now is a blackboard. Maybe we could cadge one frae the school?”

Sarah didn’t answer. She didn’t want to go back to the schoolhouse, to look over her shoulder at what her life had been.

Curiosity

Behind the schoolroom was a scullery with a deep sink and running water.

“When the Raws were built, the colonel and Miss Bunty had runnin’ water put in,” explained Mary Ellen.

“No buckets an’ standpipes for us, ye’ll understand. And he’s promised a bath-house for the menfolk comin’ off their shifts.

“We’re no’ badly off here in Langrigg. If we could just get rid o’ that Rushforth and get a new manager in, things would be a lot better.”

“Who’s Miss Bunty?” Sarah’s curiosity was aroused. Mary Ellen laughed. “That’s the colonel’s sister. Lives in Edinburgh, but she’s aye back an’ forward to the Big House. Doesna stand on ceremony, Miss Bunty. Keeps Colonel Grant’s lady wife in her place. They’re aye travellin’ t’ foreign parts, an’ that’s when Rushforth gets the upper hand, so to speak.”

“Are you gonnae be oor teacher?”

The speaker was a small boy who stood in the doorway with a cluster of companions. “Don’t you be nosy, Isaac Makin. Awa’ you go, now. Your boots are a’ muddy, and this linoleum’s polished,” Mary Ellen scolded.

Isaac edged across the threshold, his friends clustered behind him. “Where’s ma seat gonnae be, Mrs Walker?” he persisted.

“Let them come in,” Sarah whispered.

More tomorrow.

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