Tricky puffed out his chest and answered with dignity. “I’m a general factotum. Miss Bunty’s ain words”, he said

Daniel’s little sister had left before Sarah had got back from the Wee School and somehow Daniel had never found the right moment to tell her about Katy’s visit, or the fact that he’d given her their meagre savings, his mind crowded as it was with thoughts of the meeting, the planned strike. He was turning the empty tea caddy over and over in his hands when Sarah came in the door. They looked at each other. “I’m sorry,” they said in unison.

As they sat entwined on the fireside chair, Sarah smoothed his hair back and kissed him lightly on the brow. “No more quarrels or angry silences, Daniel,” she said. “And no secrets.”

He nodded, his arms tightening around her waist. “I promise, Sarah. We might disagree, but we won’t quarrel about it. But secrets.” He thought for a moment, then sighed. “I have a secret. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but what with the meeting...”

His wife placed her finger on his lips. “No mention of the meeting allowed, Daniel Morrison. We agreed. Now, tell me your secret, and when you’ve done that, I’ll tell you mine.”

Haltingly, Daniel told her about the money he’d given to Katy. “You did the right thing.” Sarah smiled at him. “Katy’s very young. You have to make sure she’s safe in Edinburgh. Have you told her to write and give us her address there?”

Daniel nodded. “Then I’ll go and see your mam as often as I can, and your father, too, even if he’s in one of his black moods.”

Determination

The look of determination on Sarah’s face as she mentioned his father made Daniel laugh. “Pate was right,” he said at last. “About what?”

“I’ll tell you some day, love, but not now, or my life might just become unbearable.” Daniel laughed.

But beneath that laugh was a knot of worry. Daniel had one secret that he couldn’t share with Sarah – the unexpected visit of Rushforth that very afternoon, when Daniel was alone in the home.

The pit manager had worn a strange, unpleasant smile. His voice had been menacingly quiet.

“So you had a meetin’, did you?” he’d sneered. “Then here’s your warnin’, Morrison. One mair hint o’ trouble from you, and it’s doon the road.” As he’d turned away, he’d uttered one last threat. “And it’s oot o’ this house for you and your...” he’d hesitated “... your clever wife, wi’ her fancy ways,” he’d finished. There had been spite and jealousy in his words. In the local shop, Tricky Binnie was holding the floor. Leaning back against the counter, hand nonchalantly in pocket, he was basking in the attention of Nellie Burnett and some of her cronies. Maggie, the shopkeeper, glanced at the clock. It was long after her usual closing time.

“Did you come in here tae buy somethin’, Tricky, or were ye juist lookin’ for an audience?” she enquired.

Tricky, in full flow, didn’t seem to hear her. “Oh, aye, it’s a braw hoose,” he told Nellie Burnett, who was enquiring about the interior of the Grant residence.

“A’ fancy stuff an’ taradiddles. Nae ben the room and ben the kitchen up there. It’s the drawing-room.” He assumed a strangulated tone of politeness. “The mawrning room, the liberry wi’ thoosands o’ books.”

“And the scullery, where you’ll spend maist o’ your time, I expect.” Nellie Burnett’s tone was scornful.

“Nut at a’,” was the response. “I have the run o’ the hoose. ‘Make yoursel’ at hame, Ernest,’ Miss Bunty telt me.”

Disbelief

There was a titter of disbelief which went unnoticed by the speaker.

“Ernest? Is that your real name, Tricky? That’s a new yin, right enough.” Maggie laughed, suddenly taking an interest.

“My faither was English,” Tricky explained, moving on with his tales of his new job. “An’ here’s a funny thing. There’s an auld rug in the liberry that ye wouldna gie tuppence for, and ye’re no’ allowed tae step on it. Ye’ve tae walk roond it, because seemin’ly it comes fae Persia or some sich place,” he said.

For a moment, there was silence as the information was digested. “Whit exactly is yer job, Tricky? Are ye a butler?” Nellie asked. “Wi’ a swallatail coat?” one of her companions finished.

Tricky puffed out his chest and answered with dignity. “I’m a general factotum. Miss Bunty’s ain words,” he replied proudly. Someone giggled.

“Does that mean ye dae as little as possible?” Nellie Burnett enquired.

“It means,” Tricky answered, looking slightly offended, “that I dae a wee bit o’ this and a wee bit o’ that. And seein’ that I can turn my hand to onythin’, it’s nae bother.”

“Well, that beats workin’ up to yer knees in water at a coal face, Tricky. My man comes hame soakin’ maist nights,” one of the audience complained. The conversation was suddenly diverted.

“An’ y’canna get the dust off damp moleskins,” she added. “Mind ye, I dinna miss that job. When I did my man’s workin’ claes off the gable end, I was choked wi’ dust. If they’re wet, I just hang them on the pulley.”

There was a murmur of agreement. For a moment, attention was diverted from Tricky.

“Did you come in tae buy somethin’, or tae brag aboot yer new situation, Tricky?” Maggie was losing interest.

Before he could answer, a new voice cut through the sudden buzz of conversation about the poor conditions at the pit.

“I asked you to get a loaf o’ bread on your way hame frae yer work. Are ye gaunnae take a’ night, Tricky Binnie?” Magrit stood there in a wraparound floral apron, scarlet spots of indignation on her cheeks. Tricky was suddenly deprived of speech.

Opportunity

Maggie handed a loaf to Tricky. “Nae tick,” she said, extending her hand, palm upwards.

Tricky rummaged in his pocket. Magrit’s gimlet stare fixed on Nellie Burnett.

“An’ I hope ye havena been talkin’ aboot oor private business in this partic’lar company,” she added.

“That’s the last loaf.” Maggie seized her opportunity as Tricky’s audience melted away. “I’m done for the night. I’ll away ben the hoose.” She rattled her keys.

Sarah was sewing when Daniel got back from one of his visits to Pate.

“Mary Ellen’s away out on errands of mercy most afternoons, and I think Pate gets wearied, sitting there on his own.

“A wee blether puts in the time for him, he tells me,” Daniel had explained when Sarah had remarked that he seemed to be spending a lot of time at the Walkers’ house.

“We’re not planning a strike,” he’d added. “Just tryin’ to work out where that water that’s floodin’ the pit is comin’ from. Pate knows a lot about the old workings.”

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