And what will you say to them, Daniel?” Sarah’s voice was quiet. “I’m calling a strike,” was the answer

Sarah sighed again as she prepared slabs of bread and cheese, all of it smothered in blackcurrant jam, for the piece box. “Miners like jam on their bread and cheese,” he’d told her when she’d questioned what she thought to be a strange mixture. It was almost as if he wanted to be a miner in every way, down to the smallest detail And as a miner, Sarah reflected, glancing at the boots sitting ready at the door, at the half-filled piece box, all his ambition would be crushed, and with it her plans for the future. He would turn into his father.

There was the sudden scrape of metal on stone as the piece box was swept from the draining board and spilled its contents across the scullery floor. Sarah stood there, heedless, trying to still the fear that rose in her like a black tide.

“What’s wrong? I heard a noise.”

Daniel stood there, roused from his reverie, anxious.

Sarah turned. “It was an accident. I knocked over your piece box.” There was a beat of silence as the two looked at each other. “I was upset. Upset because I’m worried, Daniel. You’re keeping something from me. And it’s something important to you, I know. Daniel, we promised each other that we’d share everything for the rest of our lives. The good and the bad. So why are you harbouring a secret?”

Her husband took Sarah’s hands in his.

“I’m protecting you,” he said quietly. “Just as all the men are trying to protect their wives. There’s no sense in meeting trouble halfway. Besides, if we’re to succeed, we must be sure to give no warning to the enemy.”

At the fireside...

At that moment, Sarah Morrison knew what her husband was keeping from her.

“You insult me by keeping things from me, Daniel. And, worst of all, you betray my trust. We made a bargain, and I’ve kept my side of it. You must keep yours.”

Daniel took her hand.

“Come and sit by the fire with me, Sarah, and I’ll keep my side of the bargain,” was all he said.

In her heart, Sarah knew what he was going to say. At the fireside, she shrugged away from him and sat in the chair facing him while he spoke.

“It’s all come to a head,” he said. “The poor wages, the bad conditions, Rushforth’s threats. The men have had enough. Now, it’s all or nothing.”

As he spoke, his voice rose, colour seemed to flood into his face. He got to his feet, his arm raised as he spoke. “Rushforth’s a coward, Sarah. A bully. And like any bully, he thinks that threats will work. But we’ll show him. Left to me, there’ll be no more laddies like Jackie, no more fellows like Josh Makin, lookin’ for overtime to feed his pack o’ bairns when the man’s exhausted as it is.”

Sarah remained silent. She had never seen her Daniel like this. Angry, excited, aflame with emotion. Inwardly, she was shaking with the beginnings of fear.

“He’s banned meetings, has he? Well, there’ll be a meeting tonight.” Daniel’s voice had risen. “And they’ve asked me to act as their leader. Which I will be honoured to do.”

Sarah knew then that he was in a place where she could not reach him, a place that had once been occupied by Geraint Morrison.

“And what will you say to them, Daniel?” Sarah’s voice was quiet.

“I’m calling a strike,” was the answer, as Daniel Morrison glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece and picked up his jacket and his boots.

Sarah fought to find her voice.

“But meetings are banned on pit premises, Daniel. Do you want to have us put out of house and home?” He gave a short laugh.

“The meeting’s no’ on pit premises. It’s in the barn up at Main’s farm,” he said. “We’re no’ without friends.”

A meeting

Sarah knew then that nothing she could say would stop him. At the door, he turned.

“Will you wish me, luck, Sarah?”

She didn’t reply, and he turned away.

Sarah tried to collect her wits, shivering slightly despite the heat in the room. Then, grabbing her shawl, she fled out of the house, leaving the front door open, and presented herself, breathless, in Mary Ellen’s kitchen.

“Where’s this meeting, lass?” she said, taking off her apron as she spoke.

Sarah told her.

Mary Ellen took her coat from the peg behind the door and struggled into it.

“Come wi’ me,” she said, her voice grim. “You an’ me are goin’ to Main’s farm.”

Pate was drowsing in his chair as Mary Ellen came into the kitchen. The fire had burned low and only one lamp shone in the corner. With a sigh of sheer weariness, she sank into a chair without taking off her coat and sat there, unwinding a shawl that was soaked through from her head and shoulders. For a moment she drank in the silence, and from it began to gather her strength.

“You’d best get that wet coat off or you’ll catch your death o’ cold.” Pate’s voice made her start.

“Just gie me a minute or two to gather mysel’ up, Pate.”

Her voice was weary as she stared into the remains of the fire. Pate had never seen her like this but stayed silent. Only when she had removed her coat and boots and began to busy herself bringing the fire back into life did he dare to speak.

“What happened at the meetin’?” he asked.

Hungry bairns

Mary Ellen turned to him with a weary smile.

“We stopped a strike, young Sarah and me. It was hard. Daniel was speakin’ to the men when we got there, and he was makin’ a guid job o’ it. He had them in the palm o’ his hand. They would ha’ followed him anywhere, and he was goin’ to take a vote, so I had to have ma say.”

“You interrupted the meetin’?”

Mary Ellen pulled the kettle forward on the range and gave the fire a ferocious poke before answering.

“Aye. Somebody had to. Somebody wi’ a bit o’ common sense.”

Pate waited until Mary Ellen had made them both a reviving cup of tea, knowing that only then would he hear the full story.

“I just told them what it would be like for the womenfolk, the bairns. Told them what I thought o’ them for keepin’ their meetin’ a secret frae these same womenfolk, when they were the ones that would suffer along wi’ the bairns and a winter comin’ on. Barefoot bairns on a winter’s day? Hungry bairns wi’ no bread to put on the table? Sickly bairns that could die in the face o’ that, and no’ a thing that could be done to save them.”

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